Silver Shades of Grey
by Blissfully Delirious
Summary: ON HOLD "What do you mean he’s staying here?"..."Draco Malfoy has become a valuable asset to the Order." Betrayed by his own side, Draco seeks protection from the Order in exchange for information, but he hasn't exactly had a change of heart. Veela!Draco
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** **Hello, lovies. Just a few notes before you dive in. (1) Beware the sarcasm (I lay it on rather thick in places); (2) Beware the OOC-ness (I have taken certain liberties with certain characters); (3) Beware the slash (that's right: boy-on-boy action; no like, no read). Also, I have disregarded books 6 & 7 and, honestly, this story is slighty AU. Just a heads up.**

**This is my take on the Veela!Draco story. I tried to make it as original as possible, but, of course, there will be a certain level of established clichés. Just bear with me.**

**Enjoy!**

Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter One

Harry blinked owlishly at the Headmaster. "He's staying _here_?"

Dumbledore smiled patiently, quite prepared for Harry's petulance. "We did offer him our protection."

"I thought that meant an Order safe house not Grimmauld Place."

"Draco Malfoy has become a valuable asset to the Order."

Indeed. As though Harry could forget that four weeks ago the Prince of Slytherin had approached the Order with an offer: in exchange for information regarding the Death Eaters, and more specifically Voldemort's inner circle, he wanted protection from his father and the Dark Lord himself. The Order agreed. And as it is their habit to jump without a chute, it was only after they extended their protection that they learned _why_ Draco had defected.

In fact, there were several reasons. The first being the death of his mother—killed at the behest of his father. Now, Lucius Malfoy had never been a kind man, but no one had ever thought him a fool either. Draco, as heir to the Malfoy legacy, was privy to the inner workings of Voldemort's scheming—and capable of an unrelenting spitefulness. And what better way to spite his father for the death of his mother than to defect to the enemy?

Why Narcissa Malfoy had been killed was the second factor in Draco's defection. The short end of it was that she'd asked Albus Dumbledore for help. Not for herself, but for her son. Narcissa remained loyal to the Dark Lord up until her death. She abhorred the Order and thought Dumbledore a doddery old fool…but a fool who could protect her child.

Why was Draco in need of protection?

Factor three: He was veela.

Oh, and not just that. Draco, to the amazement of all, actually displayed veelic tendencies. "It's incredible," Hermione had explained somewhat breathlessly. "I've never head of such a thing. Male crossbreed veela simply do _not_ inherit tendencies."

The significance of this _impossibility_ was later explained to Harry. The crux of it was thus: Draco Malfoy possessed a strength of magic that was near equal to Harry's and, therefore, near equal to Voldemort's. Ergo it was safe to assume that Voldemort had certain plans for the young Malfoy that Narcissa found neither pleasant nor savory. Thus her turning to Dumbledore for help.

To be honest, Harry was curious despite himself. The advantages of having someone like Draco Malfoy on their side were undeniable—imagine having both the Boy Wonder and the Slytherin Prince as allies against the Dark Lord. Voldemort wouldn't stand a chance. Then again, would Draco be willing to throw his lot in with the very people who stood against everything he believed in? Or would he stop at betrayal and keep behind the lines?

No doubt the ever-optimistic Albus Dumbledore believed he could somehow sway Draco to fight for the Light, and no doubt he believed Harry would ultimately play the key role in said swaying—which would explain why the young Malfoy was to be staying at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

Harry frowned disappointedly at the Headmaster. Really now, he was becoming much too obvious in his scheming. _Must be the old age setting in_, Harry mused with an inward shrug. _No need to spoil the old man's fun_. "And Malfoy's staying here because…?"

Dumbledore peered at Harry over the rim of his glasses. "Need I even explain, dear boy? With your combined strength Voldemort would be easily defeated."

Bingo. "I'm going to go out on a limb here," he said ironically, "and guess that you want me to bring the little ferret around to our way of thinking."

"Can you think of anyone better suited to the task?"

_Other than every other living creature on Earth_? "I could name a few."

The kitchen door swung open. Ginny waltzed in, frowning curiously at the pair. She grabbed a box of cereal from the cupboard, pirouetted gracefully on her toes, and waltzed back out. Harry smiled and shook his head—she could be such a dramatist.

"You and he will share adjoining rooms on the upper floor," Dumbledore resumed. "In the morning you will both attend Order meetings. Afternoon lessons—"

"_Lessons_!"

"—will be split. One half to your teaching him wandless magic and channeling, and one half to his teaching you the fineries of dark magic."

Harry slouched back into his chair, pouting. "Lessons, sir? I thought I was through with lessons when I graduated."

Dumbledore's watery blue eyes sparkled with a kind, gentle sympathy. Harry squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, clutching desperately to his quickly-fading irritation. _Honestly_, he huffed, _how does the man expect me to stay angry with him when looks at me like that_?

As though Harry had any hope whatsoever of kindling any sort of displeasure toward the affable Albus Dumbledore. It really wasn't fair.

"The lessons are necessary," Dumbledore explained. "If you are to defeat Voldemort, you and Mr. Malfoy must learn to work together."

"But, sir…we _hate_ each other."

"Do you?"

It was really quite distressing the way Dumbledore would sometimes look at you as though he knew the inner workings of your soul. He would peer straight through you and down into the misty no man's land known as—well, Harry hadn't the faintest clue what it might be called, but it was certainly the realm of fate, destiny, all of that nonsense which he refused to believe in and which nonetheless seemed to steer the course of his life. Perhaps Dumbledore was a Fate? It would certainly explain a lot.

But no. Dumbledore was merely an irritatingly wise man with an irritatingly pleasant mien with whom, much to your irritation, you simply could not remain irritated. Honestly, it really wasn't fair.

"I am aware of your sentiment toward young Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said. "This task will not be easy, I admit. But I have complete faith in you, Harry."

_Oh sure. No pressure._ Harry slouched further into his chair. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

Dumbledore smiled and stood. "Wonderful. Now do excuse me, dear boy. I believe the Minister is expecting me."

And with that he was gone, leaving Harry to brood over the unfairness of wanting desperately to be angry with someone he _couldn't _be angry with. "This sucks."

* * *

Since his mother's death, Draco had been somewhat…subdued. Or so Harry had been told, and to which he had replied quite brusquely, "Bullshit." And he had maintained that it was pure bullshit right up until the moment he actually _saw _Draco—and then he put his foot in his mouth. 

He looked terrible. Proud, vain, arrogant Draco Malfoy schlepped into the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place looking for all the world like a walking corpse. Sallow, disheveled, utterly miserable. It was quite a system shock.

_Subdued my arse_," Harry thought. _He's the bloody living dead_.

Oddly enough, he found that he wasn't relieved by that little revelation. He should have been thrilled—Draco Malfoy, his long-standing adversary, was down for the count. There should have been streamers and noisemakers and multilayered cake, right? Ron, at least, looked properly joyous; looking fit to start bouncing in his seat. Even Hermione—_Hermione_!—was hiding a spiteful pleasure beneath her otherwise cool features.

So why was Harry feeling…what? Worry? Pity? Disappointment? All of the above?

Worry and pity were, if not wholly reasonable, at least logical when faced with such a disaster as Draco Malfoy now presented. But disappointment? Disappointed about _what_? That Draco hadn't yet sneered and drawled out one of his arrogant remarks? That he hadn't yet called Hermione a mudblood? Or Harry half a dozen other obscenities?

It took a moment, but Harry eventually realized that was _exactly_ what he was disappointed about. Malfoy wasn't being Malfoy. To say the least, it surprised him that he should be disappointed by Draco's sudden sobriety. Then again it really wasn't all that surprising. After all, he had been an integral part of Harry's life for over seven years—certainly not a wanted nor appreciated part, but a part nonetheless.

And although Harry may not have fully realized it, Draco was also a driving force in his life. He pushed Harry, tested his nerve, forced him to push himself harder than he would if left to his own devices.

Perhaps that was the ultimate purpose of an adversary.

"Merlin, but he looks like hell," Ginny whispered to him.

She, too, felt no joy at Draco's ragged tumble into disarray. Nor did she feel disappointment. Rather, she sympathized with him. She could not imagine the desperate pain of losing her mother, did not _want_ to imagine it, but she could imagine herself tumbling into the same endless pit of misery as Draco. Arrogant as he may be, needlessly cruel, and outrageously vain, he still had a heart and he still bled when it was ripped from his chest. With that, Ginny could sympathize.

"Do think we should, I don't know, _do_ something?"

Harry's gaze swept the kitchen. Ron and Hermione sat across from him, silent, their varying degrees of unseemly delight written clearly upon their faces. Mrs. Weasley fretted over cooking pots, stirring this and mixing that, looking more harassed at Draco's presence than anything else. Dumbledore and Snape were speaking in low tones near the door, away from curious ears. Draco sat slumped in his chair, hair falling unnoticed over his eyes, his hands plucking at the rumpled material of his dark grey slacks.

Harry frowned, looked at Ginny. Should they do something? They were hardly obligated to be hospitable, and if they chose not to extend some small kindness they would hardly be faulted for it. But he looked so utterly, so impossibly, miserable that Harry could hardly sit there and do nothing. Adversary or no, Draco Malfoy still deserved the least bit of cordiality.

"Tea?"

They went about the tea making process drawing little attention other than an initial cursory glance from Mrs. Weasley. Harry set a kettle of water on the stove, Ginny retrieved a cup and pulled down a tea canister. A teabag was placed in the cup, the boiling water poured over it—Ginny gave it a few good stabs for good measure—and topped it off with a spot of milk. There. A perfect cup of tea.

Crossing the short distance between the counter and the corner where Draco had draped his lifeless body, Harry felt the suddenly curious eyes of every occupant in the kitchen. It was strange really, but he could actually differentiate the stares.

Ron gawking in his simple, habitually bewildered way. Hermione, chagrined by her earlier lack of sympathies and sense of spiteful glee. Mrs. Weasley watching with a flush of motherly pride and a sprig of dumbfoundment. Snape's standard scowling. And of course Dumbledore, looking quite pleased with himself and apt to pat himself on the back.

The only person not looking at them was Draco, who only lifted his head when their feet came into his line of vision. For a moment he stared at them blankly and Harry felt a jolt of something—Panic? Anxiety? Dread?—but quickly suppressed it. Or tried to, at any rate. He couldn't help the jumbling of emotions swishing around in his gut.

Where was the ever-sneering Draco Malfoy he had come to know and hate? Where was the look of utter hostility reserved exclusively for Harry and his friends? Where were the scornful remarks and callous insults? Harry tried very hard not to look betrayed by his adversaries lack of reaction.

_Wait a minute._ Harry suddenly perked up._ Is that a frown?_

Indeed. It appeared as though Draco had mustered the merest expression of distaste. Harry felt an irrational sense of elation, and surmised that he must be going mad—and a quick glance at Ginny, who looked equally elated, told him that he wasn't alone.

The rational part of Harry's brain was screaming rather shrilly at him that he should have felt a welling of triumph over his enemies obvious defeat, rather than delight at the revelation that Draco still despised him. But again, Harry was forced to concede that, like as not, Draco Malfoy was a keystone in the pillar of his existence. Life was certainly never dull with the little ferret bouncing around.

Harry set the teacup on the breakfront—aware of, but feigning ignorance to, Draco's developing scowl. He felt a certain degree of pride in knowing that he could elicit such a strong show of emotion from one of the living dead.

"What do you want, Potter?" asked said dead, his voice harsh and raspy like dry parchment, like he hadn't spoken in years.

"Nothing," Harry shrugged, he and Ginny retreating back to their seats before Draco could reply.

Ron stared owlishly at them, his jaw hanging open dumbly. Hermione furrowed her brow incredulously. "What was that then?"

Ginny frowned thoughtfully. "What was what?"

"You made tea for Malfoy," Hermione said somewhat accusingly.

"And?" Ginny countered. "There a law against making tea for someone?"

"You made _tea_ for _Malfoy_."

"Yes, Hermione, we made tea for Malfoy."

Ginny's tone was condescending. Hermione scowled and pushed her chair back, standing. "Fine," she said briskly and strode from the kitchen. Ron sat indecisively for half a moment before glowering at his sister and following after Hermione.

Harry looked at Ginny, made a wry face and shook his head. She stared back at him in all innocence. "What?"

"You did that on purpose."

"Did what?"

Harry gave her a pointed look.

"Oh, alright," she relented with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You know I can't help myself. She's just so easy a target. And anyway," she shrugged, "Hermione knows I'm only joshing her."

"Yes, but _I'll_ be the one who gets a lecture for not keeping you on a shorter leash."

Ginny snickered, waggling her finger at him. "Bad master."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up."

"Is master angry?" she asked coyly, staring up at him with puppy eyes, playfully nuzzling his arm. Harry loured. Ginny cackled, pushing herself to her feet. "Come along, grumpy. We've a lecture to attend and we mustn't be late."

"Couldn't you write me a sick note?" Harry asked sullenly, schlepping out behind her.

Ginny just laughed.

Neither had taken any notice of the silver-grey eyes watching their entire exchange with an unequivocal spark of interest.

* * *

"Explain it to me again," Harry said. 

Hermione tucked her legs in on the couch, pulling a tasseled pillow onto her lap. "There has never been a documented account of a male crossbreed displaying any sort of veelic tendencies," she said. "As we understand it now, it has something to do with the bonding of the X and Y chromosomes. For some reason, the genes for wizarding magic and those for veelic tendencies don't seem to correlate for males as they do for females. A male crossbreed can, in effect, inherit every veela gene _but_ that for veelic tendencies."

"If that's true," Ginny said, "then how is it Malfoy's displaying tendencies?"

"Maybe he's really a girl," Ron remarked.

He was ignored.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. _No one_ knows. There is absolutely no basis for comparison. For all we know his tendencies are entirely innocuous," she said. "Or they may prove incredibly destructive."

"What sort of tendencies is he displaying?" Harry asked.

"As of this morning? Only two, and they appear to be interrelated," Hermione replied. "The first is a type luminescence—glowing—associated with strong or sudden emotional response. The second is an unconscious tendency toward wandless magic borne out of said emotional response. With proper instruction," she said, glancing at Harry, "and a bit of goodwill, he could very well prove indispensable to the Order."

"And what? You want us to make nice with Malfoy?" Ron said incredulously, a look of utter distaste written upon his face.

Harry was rather apt to agree with Ron's sentiment himself. For all his jumbled emotions—his irrational sense of betrayal at Malfoy's sudden slide into misery; his equally irrational elation at having provoked the little ferret from his living dead romp; his disappointment and pity; and above all the tiny voice at the back of his mind, which, incidentally, sounded remarkably like Dumbledore, insisting he indeed "make nice" with Draco Malfoy—he could not suppress the once all-consuming, but recently dwindling, aversion to all things even remotely tied to the name _Malfoy_—except for Doby, of course, who was liberated from his vile master and who, Harry insisted, wouldn't touch a single thing _Malfoy_ with a ten-foot pole.

It was second nature to Harry to slip into combat mode whenever Draco approached, to assume the always prim Slytherin Prince would take the time and effort to rile him up, instigate a foul tête-à-tête involving, namely, the insult of his friends, and then, with a sneer and a flourish, leave before Harry even had the chance to conceive a witty retort.

Not that Harry often _had_ a witty retort. Witty was more the realm of Hermione and Ginny, whereas he was infinitely more comfortable in the lands of Blunt and Scathing, where the objective was to test just how deeply Draco was able to scowl and just how homicidally hateful he could become. True, it wasn't exactly tactful nor particularly intelligent on Harry's part to press Draco to the point of murder, but it was so immensely enjoyable that he just couldn't help himself.

It was understandable, then, that Dumbledore's entreaty for help in his ultimate plan of wooing Draco to the Light came as a bit of a system shock—not to mention the flooring Harry received on hearing of his adversaries unique gene pool. It was, well, bizarre. Draco Malfoy a veela? It was absurd, ridiculous, preposterous…and a dozen other equally negating synonyms. It just _couldn't be real_. But it was.

Draco _was_ veela and Harry, beyond all semblance of sense and rational, _did_ want to help him. He understood the heart-shattering agony of losing someone you loved. Hell, it'd been more than two years and he _still _awoke in cold sweats at night, a silent scream dangling from his lips, images of Sirius falling through the veil seared onto the back of his eyes, haunting him. Nightmares of Cedric, his parents, even the could-have-happened visions of Ginny lying dead by Tom Riddle's hand plagued him to this day—and would no doubt plague him until his death.

So yes, he could sympathize with Draco over the loss of his mother and the cold betrayal of his father.

But sympathizing with and befriending were two totally different beasts.

Hermione was peering down her nose at Ron in such a way as to make anyone feel hopelessly feeble and insignificant. It was a rather impressive look—one Harry tried very hard to avoid whenever possible. "It wouldn't kill you to be civilized, _Ronald_."

Ron cringed beneath the weight of The Tone, looking very much as though he were trying to fold himself back _into_ the couch and away from Hermione's steady, entirely frightening, stare. "But…Her_mione_!" he whined indignantly. "It's _Malfoy_! No one's _nice_ to Malfoy."

"Well then," she sniffed. "You can be the first."

Had his jaw the realistic ability to hit the floor, Ron's would have crashed straight through and down into the kitchen. As it was, his jaw flapped wordlessly with the sheer indignity of Hermione's command—and there was no doubt whatsoever that it was, indeed, a command and no mere request.

Harry bit hard on his lip to keep from laughing. No need to draw Hermione's righteous determination his way. He had enough on his plate already. Beside him, Ginny's body shook with suppressed mirth, eyes tearing from her effort to keep silent.

But it was to no avail. Hermione's sharp eyes honed in on them like flies to a honey pot. And suddenly things didn't seem all that funny anymore.

"We should _all_ make the effort," she said, The Tone leaving no room for argument. "He hardly deserves our compassion, I know. And were we in his position, I doubt very much he would show us any kindness. But one does not cut off their nose to spite their face." She looked at each of them, eyes narrowed. "If nothing else, our kindness will prove us better than Malfoy."

Harry smiled to himself. That's certainly how you hit the nail on the head. _Ron's_ head, anyway. Ron, who was now looking quite smug at the prospect of proving himself a notch up from Draco Malfoy. Harry really couldn't do anything _but_ smile. Hermione knew how to be devilishly manipulative when it suited her.

Truth was, Harry agreed with her…if but reluctantly. They _were_ better than Malfoy in that they didn't ignore suffering simply because it belonged to an adversary. They didn't shrug their shoulders and turn away just because a person had, at one time, said something offensive or demeaning. It just wasn't something decent people did. It wasn't something _they_ did. They weren't spiteful—or, if they did happen to slide down into that murky pool, it was a short swim and they felt immensely dirty afterward—and they didn't hold grudges.

After graduating, they had each happily pushed all thought of Draco Malfoy from their minds—wiping clean the slate, so to speak. School was over, so what was the point of holding to schoolyard grievances?

Was there still a lingering resentment? Of course there was, but that didn't mean Harry dreamt of gutting Malfoy like a fish or rapping him across the skull with his broomstick. Resentment was natural in the face of mockery and harassment, and eventually Harry came to realize that Draco Malfoy simply wasn't worth the effort of hating.

For whatever reasons Draco was the way he was, nothing Harry ever said or did would change who and what Draco was. _So why_, he found himself pondering one lazy afternoon, _even bother hating him for being himself in the first place? He is who he is, whether I like it or not, and hating him isn't going to change a damn thing. So why go to all the trouble?_

Which was how, in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, Harry found himself simply ignoring Draco's snide remarks—and sure, sometimes they struck a cord and flooded Harry's system with an almost irrepressible desire to break the nasty little ferret's nose—reminding himself that the Prince of Slytherin wasn't worth the dirt on his shoes.

Of course, worth his effort or no, Harry nonetheless felt more than a little odd hosting such a jumble of emotion in his gut. Again, the rational side of his brain was screeching at him that he _should not care about Malfoy!_ Be cordial, yes; be decent and considerate—such were the traits of civility, after all—but, his brain shrilled, _do not care!_

If he wasn't worth the effort to hate, than he certainly isn't worth the effort to care about. His mother was killed, yes, and it was a horrendous act of betrayal on the part of his father, to be sure, and Harry was well within his boundary to sympathize, but…_but!_ that did not mean he should be affected by Draco's plight.

As cold as it sounded, the expression was true: Shit Happens. The world didn't stop spinning just because Draco Malfoy was suffering. The War wasn't put on hiatus. Voldemort certainly wasn't going to take the week off. And although Harry very much understood what it was Draco was going through, he simply could not afford to put any effort into really, truly, _caring_.

That's what he told him, anyway.

Had he not been so studiously ignoring the tango of emotion in his gut, not been working tirelessly to rationalize his earlier tea-bearing lapse into the world of Caring, he may have noticed that his sentiment of so-called "choosing not to care" was, in fact, pure and unadulterated horseshit.

He couldn't help _but_ care. Ginny would say he was too goodhearted, too innocent in his willingness to see the best in people, too quick to forgive. Maybe that was true, and maybe it wasn't, but regardless, Harry would care—whether he wished to or not.

"Not possible," Ron finally said. "Hermione, there is no bloody way in hell I can play nice with the ferret."

"You needn't play nice," she replied. "All I ask is you don't incite a confrontation."

"And if he starts it?"

"Walk away."

Ron looked utterly flabbergasted by such a request. _Walk away_ from Malfoy? Ronald Weasley did not _walk away_ from anything, let alone a sneering little ferret. "He'll think I'm cowardly."

Hermione leveled him with a stare. "Since when do you give weight to Malfoy's opinion?"

"I don't. I just…" Ron struggled with his words, shifting uncomfortably beneath Hermione's unwavering stare. "If I walk away, Malfoy wins."

"Oh, I see. It's a pissing contest. A _guy thing_, right? I couldn't possibly understand." Her words dripped with acid-like sarcasm. "It couldn't possibly be your damn pride getting the better of you, now could it?"

"_My_ pride! He's the one—"

"Yes, yes, _yes_." This last was said with such force Harry was sure he felt the very walls tremble. But just as quickly her features softened into something very much like resignation.

Ron was stubborn as a mule and proud to the point of absurdity, and Hermione was quite aware that arguing with him would get her absolutely nowhere. "Please, Ron," she conceded. "At least promise not to do anything senseless, like throw him out a window."

Ron cracked a smile and the tension in the room deflated. "Out a window, huh? Sounds promising."

Hermione also smiled. "You're incorrigible."

Harry nudged Ginny, giving her a look as if to say _Can you believe these two_? Ginny smiled, rolled her eyes.

It was a routine both were familiar with, this fierce butting of heads between Ron and Hermione followed always, _always_, by a sort of pseudo-flirtation. Pseudo- because neither of them would openly, or privately, for that matter, admit to harboring an attraction toward the other—despite the fact that anyone with eyes, and probably anyone without them, could see that they were hopelessly, madly, deeply in love with each other.

Sirius had once asked Harry how it was that they hadn't yet torn each other to shreds. The two of them had been sitting in the front parlor, playing cards, when Hermione had suddenly marched in—unaware, or uncaring, of their presence—looking for all the world as though she were seriously contemplating someone's slow, torturous death. Harry had never seen her so livid.

Sirius had moved as if to approach her, but Harry had wisely counseled against it—citing the fact that she probably knew more spells than Dumbledore, and furthermore that she had been researching the Dark Arts as of late, and that she would most likely take aim at the first thing she set her eyes upon.

Sirius remained seated. And a few moments later Ron came storming though the hall, glaring daggers at Hermione. The argument that followed put all others to shame. It was like watching a cock fight—you were fascinated by the sheer ferocity of destruction, unable to pull your eyes away even as the killing blow was struck.

That blow came from Hermione in the form of a wicked slap across the cheek. The _clap_ of palm-against-skin purled through the room, followed by a thick, suffocating silence. From where they sat, Harry and Sirius saw the angry red impression on Ron's cheek, the shocked expression on his face. Hermione had looked near tears, her expression cold and deadly.

After they had each gone their separate ways, Sirius had turned to Harry and asked, "What the hell was _that_?"

"That," Harry had answered, "was their way of saying 'I love you'."

It was strange, but each fight seemed to bring them ever closer to admitting their feelings for one another. Harry only hoped they didn't kill each other first.

**TBC**

**A/N: There you have it. What did you think? Don't be shy: submit a review. Go on. You know you want to. Everyone's doing it…**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry folks, no Harry/Draco interaction in this chapter—next one though, I promise. I also want to point out that Draco will NOT turn out to be a Good-All-Along, S.P.E.W supporting, muggle-lover, but neither will he be a complete egomaniacal prick (I'm aiming for a happy median, at least between him and Harry).**

**Also: be aware that I will be introducing a (hopefully) interesting twist in Harry's and Ginny's relationship—but nothing romantic, I swear! Just a heads up.**

Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter Two

Harry lay stretched out on a stone bench in the backyard garden of Grimmauld Place, his chest bare to the late morning sun, twirling blades of grass between his fingers. Ginny sat propped up on her elbows beside him in a bikini top and a pair of shorts, her fiery locks pulled back from her neck.

Overheard the sky was a rare cloudless blue, the air heavy with the scent of summer flowers and damp earth. The Weird Sisters were drifting through the wizard wireless, Ginny's foot tapping along to the beat as she chewed the end of a licorice wand.

Harry stretched his back, turned onto his stomach. The garden was vast, thick with suffocating vines and dead and dying plants in terrible need of a good pruning. Bursts of vibrant color shown through here and there, poking through the many years of neglect.

Harry sighed. There was so much still left to do: new wallpaper in the front entrance, fresh paint for the bedroom walls, new carpeting, a decent window cleaning. After Sirius died, leaving Number 12 Grimmauld Place to him, Harry decided it was time to fix the place up—it was the least he could do for Sirius: getting rid of the vile Black family taint and bringing a bit of life to the old house—but he soon realized that he may have bitten off more than he could chew. If not for everyone pitching in a hand he'd still be dusting out the ground floor closet.

"I thought you had lessons with Malfoy today," Ginny said teasingly. "I can't imagine you wanting to miss that."

"Don't remind me," Harry groaned. Turning onto his back he frowned up at the sky, at a lone sparrow flitting lazily across his vision. _Dumbledore has got to be completely mental to think this a good idea_, Harry thought sulkily. _Ten to one we're throwing punches two minutes in_.

"I know you probably don't want to hear this." Ginny's sedate voice cut into Harry's inner musings. He looked at her with a softly incredulous frown—when has his not liking what she has to say ever stopped her? "Malfoy could prove to be a real asset to our side. I mean, who knows what sort of veela magic he might have. The two of you working together…"

Harry sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the branches dangling above him. "I know," he said. "Trust me, I know."

"It's the best chance we have."

"Probably. But what makes you think he'll even agree?"

"Why would he not?"

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, shook his head softly. "He hates his father," he said definitively. "He defected to our side to _spite_ his father. But that doesn't mean he's willing to throw in his lot against Voldemort."

She stared at him in a way that was both disappointed and patronizing—and it made Harry feel very much like a child about to be scolded for having his hand in the cookie jar. He had the sudden urge to cross his arms, tip his head forward, and pout. "Did you see him _at all_, Harry?" There was that incredulity he loved to hate. "He was absolutely crushed!"

"I wouldn't—"

"I can't say I blame him, either."

Harry clapped his mouth shut, eyes impossibly wide. _Did she just…?_ "You _what_?"

A flip of her head and Ginny pierced him with what he endearingly referred to as The Glare of Death; normally reserved for her brothers and the occasional brainless lout. Harry flinched.

"Malfoy was raised to one day take his father's place as Voldemort's right hand man," she said stiffly. "They were, for all intents and purposes, his family for eighteen years. He trusted them. Trusted _him_ not to break faith with him, not to betray him. And that's exactly what he did. By giving the order to kill his mother, at the request of his father, Voldemort betrayed Malfoy." Ginny looked at him expectantly. "What better reason to jump sides?"

Harry knew he was only fooling himself—and doing a poor job at that. Call it an extreme case of forced self-delusion. Irrational denial, if you will. The bottom line was this: Harry knew exactly what had turned Malfoy from his "family" and knew without doubt that his defection was sincere and driven by a fierce sense of betrayal and hatred.

How could he _not_ feel betrayed? For all his diluted naysaying, Harry understood. He too had once felt that same sense of betrayal, that same righteous hatred, when Dumbledore had finally confessed about the prophecy.

But for all his apprehension of Malfoy's reasoning, Harry refused to take it as any more than that. Forget the cha-cha of emotions still twisting in his gut—of which he continued to deny even to himself. Forget the traitorous Dumbledore-esque voice in his mind that kept nudging him to embrace Malfoy as an ally and a friend. Forget his mutinous heart which, even now, was thrumming with empathy for his once trenchant adversary. Forget his hazardous curiosity, his insufferable sense of duty, his superfluous "good-heart".

All Harry wanted to do was accept Malfoy's defection as what it really was: a last-ditch attempt to screw his father. Was that so much to ask for? _Oh, sure_, cackled the traitorous voice. _Why not just ask Voldemort to pretty-please end his misplaced hatred of muggles and join them in a circle of kumbaya._

Harry scowled. It was a stupid voice anyway.

But stupid or no, it had a point. Harry _could_ accept Malfoy's offer of truce as nothing more than what it was. That was the easy part; the part he could accept accepting. It got a bit complicated when Harry's irrational sense of empathy and concern came into play.

Honestly, it had to be something in the water! Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, simply _did not care_ about Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Priss Extraordinaire. How could he? They had been perfect adversaries for seven glorious years. One does not simply chuck such precious, endearing experiences out the window.

Yes, Harry had since decided that the little ferret wasn't worth the effort it took to hate him, let alone _care about him_. And yes, he had cut loose all schoolyard grievances after graduating—what was the point, anyway? Harry had been perfectly content to forget the slimy little toad even existed; a decision he had been quite pleased with, thank you very much.

Those dreams were irreversibly and impossibly shattered now. Draco Malfoy was, and would continue to be, the annoyingly pesky mosquito buzzing at his ear. It really wasn't fair at all.

"_Yoo-hoo_." Something hard and slick smacked Harry on the side of the head. "Earth to space boy."

Harry blinked, looked down. A half eaten licorice wand was lying on his knee. Rubbing his head, he glowered at Ginny. "That hurt."

"No it didn't."

"It did too!"

Ginny gave him wry look. "You're such a child."

As if to prove that insulting, and obviously false, statement, Harry pouted. It was cute, really. Bottom lip jutted forward; eyes full of indignation; arms crossed tightly over the chest; head tipped down ever-so slightly; glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Definitely cute.

Ginny threw another licorice wand at him. "Adorable, really. Now are you quite through?"

Harry grumbled. "Yes."

"Good boy," Ginny cooed. "Does my good boy want an ickle treat?"

"Oh, shut up." Affronted, Harry began to tear off pieces of licorice and pelt them at Ginny, who shrieked with laughter and quickly retaliated.

"Alright!" Ginny finally called, her side aching with laughter. "Truce! Truce! You're wasting good sweets!"

"I knew you'd see it my way," said Harry triumphantly.

"You're insufferable," she said with a roll of her eyes, brushing strands of grass from her arm.

"You love it."

"Just don't tell anyone, okay?"

She gave a him a sugar-and-spice look: batting her eyelashes, coy smile, hands folded together under her chin. A display of all innocence from a girl of pure terror.

Harry smiled. He was amazed with how close they had grown over the years. He still remembered when she had been just "Ron's little sister." When she became more was anyone's guess. One day they had simply woken up and, _boom_, they were all but inseparable. It was strange, yes, but only to everyone _but_ he and Ginny—for them, it was as natural a change as anything else. But they had been curious.

Ron and Hermione had thought him off his rocker when he suggested that, perhaps, he and Ginny were soulmates. Naturally, Ron's mind had flashed to images of his best mate and his baby sister married with a brood of red-headed kids running around the Burrow.

"But you're not interested in Ginny," Ron had remarked confoundedly. No, Harry had replied. "Not like that." Hermione, in all predictability, had set about researching the idea—in the end declaring that, yes, it was entirely possible. It was rare, she said, for soulmates to actually find each other, but to do so and then to _recognize_ each other was extremely rare.

"There are just too many people; too many ways to be separated and kept apart. You're lucky one of you isn't a muggle or you'd probably never have found each other."

A spell proved Harry right.

So what was it to be soulmates? If so desired, one could connect to the other's emotions, even block emotion to help the other heal from tragedy or misery or heartbreak. They felt each others' presence without seeing each other and knew always where the other was. They conveyed complex conversation without speech, but couldn't read each others' thoughts. There was no romantic attraction; no irrational, passionate love; no desperate need to be ever close to each other—only pure affection and what Harry dubbed an Emotional Telepathy.

"Soulmates," lectured Hermione one sunny afternoon, "are nothing more than two halves of a single soul. Necessarily they are drawn to one another. In our modern world of six and a half billion people, however, it is rare indeed that they find each other. This does not mean they spend their entire lives in misery, feeling ever without the 'missing part' of their soul. Quite the contrary actually. Most live out their entire lives without ever knowing they have a soulmate. If, and when, they find each other," she said, "they are said to experience a _sharing of souls_."

"Sharing of souls?" Ginny asked. "But we already share a soul."

"Yes," Hermione conceded, "and no. If you tried to match each half of your one soul back together, they wouldn't fit. Not entirely, anyway."

"Why is that?" Harry asked.

"A soul is composed of cosmic energy. Energy which is extremely malleable. As an individual grows and learns, their soul is shaped by the experiences of their life. Like snowflakes, no two souls are completely alike. Yours," she said, looking over at Harry and Ginny, "have many similarities and compliment each other. You share a sense of understanding of each other that can never be duplicated…"

"_Harry_." Again he was hit with something hard and slick, drawing him back to the present.

_Licorice wand._ "Now you've asked for it."

Harry lunged at Ginny, who shrieked and leapt away—or tried to at least. Harry caught her by the arm and swung her around, pining her down against a stone bench. She tried to look fierce but the intermittent giggles negated the effort. "Now, now, chipmunk."

"Harry." She tugged, her belly roiling rather nervously. "Harry, let me go."

"No."

"I'm sorry," she said half-heartedly. "Really. I've learned my lesson. Throwing licorice, bad."

"Glad to hear it, chipmunk. But I'm not letting you go."

"What are you—"

Ginny squealed, pulling away from Harry's tickling fingers. She gasped, laughed, begged, cried—anything to make him stop. He knew too well where she was most sensitive.

"Okay!" she cried, squirming under the merciless assault. "You win, Potter! You _win_!"

Harry sat back with a triumphant grin. "Now who's a good chipmunk?" he teased.

Ginny glared at him with a slight twitch of her lips . "That was foul, Harry."

"Oh? And throwing sweets is such a saintly act?"

"When done by yours truly…"

Harry laughed. "You're impossible."

"So they tell me," she replied with a coquettish flip of her hair.

Celestina Warbeck filtered through the wizard wireless as they settled back to soak up the late morning sun. The sky remained a perfect cloudless blue, a sweet breeze rustling the trees. The muffled voices of neighbors and passersby drifted in through the wards enshrouding Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Don't even think about it," Harry said, eyes closed against the hot sun.

Ginny frowned, popping the chocoball she'd been about throw at him into her mouth. "I would love to know how you do that."

He looked at her with a debonair smile. "Magic."

She let out an unladylike snort and threw a chocolate at him anyway.

"Harry? Ginny? There you are." Mrs. Weasley smiled at them from the doorway, wiping her hands on her spotlessly white apron. "Come inside, dears. They'd like a word with you."

* * *

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place was stuffy and crowded. An oversized scrubbed table took up nearly half the space, each chair occupied by a stiff, unsmiling Ministry official. Mrs. Weasley was bustling about, stirring this and mixing that, serving cold drinks and plates of food, chatting happily to an unresponsive crowd.

Harry stood in the doorway, surveying the bored assembly.

To one side sat the Ministry representatives: Corrine Dabbers, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office; the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour; Adalia Modi, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. To the other side sat members of the Order: Headmaster Dumbledore; Professor McGonagall; Remus; Snape; Kingsley Shacklebolt; Tonks; Mad-Eye Moody; Bill and Charlie Weasley. Hovering between were half a dozen other Aurors and miscellaneous officials.

The Ministry representatives had been at Number 12 Grimmauld Place every day, all day, for over a week, arguing in circles and getting absolutely nowhere. Each had their own idea of where the War was heading, of how to counteract Voldemort's activities, of what Harry should and would do. Each fancied themselves master of the Savior's illustrious leash. Never mind that Harry outright refused their leash.

Ginny peeked over his shoulder, a roll of her eyes easily conveying her thoughts. With this particular collection of officials it was small wonder that nothing was getting done. Prides were clutched much too tightly, arrogance draped like robes over their unyielding shoulders, contempt wafting in the air like sharp, bitter incense.

Harry was mildly impressed they had managed not to tear each other to shreds.

"What's up?"

"Not much, big brother," Ginny smiled, glancing over her shoulder. "What have you two been up to?"

Ron scowled. "Cleaning," he grumbled. "Mum caught us coming out of the kitchen this morning."

"That's the beauty of house elves, Ronniekins."

"Yeah? Well tell that to her," he said, pointing a thumb in Hermione's direction. "She nearly skinned me alive for even _suggesting_ we ask Kreacher for anything."

Hermione gave him a look to freeze water, and Ron wisely shut up. "Do you really want to get in to this again?"

Ron was saved from having to scramble for a safe response as Dumbledore stood, beckoning the four of them inside. "Won't you join us?"

Two dozen pairs of eyes tracked them as they crossed to sit in the four unoccupied chairs set before the gathered assembly. Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable, as though he were on trial for some unidentified offense. An alien shiver down his spine told him Ginny felt the same.

Dumbledore smiled affably, blue eyes sparkling. "Excellent," he said. "Now that we're all here, shall we begin?"

"Sir," Harry asked, a nervous flutter in his belly. "What's going on?"

Gawain Robards leaned forward, hands clasped in what Harry assumed was supposed to be a down-to-earth gesture, but which actually made him look more pretentious than anything else. "There has been a development," he said gravely.

_No kidding_, Harry thought wryly. "What sort of development?"

"Lucius Malfoy has escaped Azkaban."

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and mouth off. Did they honestly think he was an idiot? That he was utterly incapable of piecing together the obvious? Why in the world would Draco come groveling to the Order, bartering for protection against his father if Lucius was still locked away in Azkaban? Never mind that Lucius was Voldemort's right hand and was likely the first to be released once the Dementors had properly defected.

Ginny touched his knee, soothing his kindling ire with an effortless stroke of their soul-bond. Snarling at the Head of the Auror Office would serve only to stoke the fire of an already precarious situation.

"I'm sorry," Harry said snidely, unable to hide completely his growing irritation. _You want me to play the idiot,_ he thought. _I'll play the pissed off idiot_. "I thought your job was to _keep_ prisoners in Azkaban, not hand them a 'get-out-of-jail-free' card."

Robards frowned unpleasantly at the muggle reference and at Harry's contemptuous tone. "We hardly held the door for him," he sneered.

"Of course not," Harry replied with a brittle smile. "I'm sure you walked him all the way out."

Robards and his Aurors bristled at the comment, and Ginny sent him a wordless scolding. Dumbledore had asked that they at least feign civility with the Ministry's representatives, if for no reason other than to encourage cooperation. But Harry found it hard to feign capitulation to a group of people that refused to take responsibility for _anything_, choosing instead to point fingers and place blame on everyone else.

It was beyond stupid, beyond childish. It was suicidal. If the defenders of the Light couldn't bring themselves to work together, than the War was lost.

Dumbledore looked at him reprovingly, and Harry felt a bizarre need to apologize. "I understand your frustration, dear boy," he said. "But now is not the time."

Harry bit hard on his tongue to silence his bitter retort. Ginny squeezed his knee reassuringly. _This is getting us nowhere_, he fumed inwardly. _While Voldemort plans his next attack they sit here bickering like children!_ Hermione touched his hand, offering a sympathetic smile, and Ron glared stoutly at the simmering Aurors.

"Our concern is not Lucius Malfoy," Rufus Scrimgeour said. "Not entirely."

"You don't say?" Harry replied mockingly. "By all means, do enlighten us."

Scrimgeour pinched his mouth in a sour expression. He and Harry had never been on good terms. "His son—"

"Let me guess," Harry interrupted, snapping his fingers. "He's veela."

"Damnit, boy!" Robards slammed his fist down, glaring dangerously. "This is no joke!"

"And I'm not laughing," Harry spat. "You people. You act like brainless louts. Lying to us. Lying to each other. I can't do my _job_ if you keep me in the dark. Unless, of course, you prefer I bow out now and leave Voldemort to you." That many of the Aurors gathered looked distinctly ill at the mere thought of facing the Dark Lord seemed somehow amusing to Harry. "I didn't think so," he said.

Ginny laughed mirthlessly, glaring hard at Robards and Scrimgeour. "And what does that say about you?" she asked harshly. "That you allow a child to do your dirty work for you."

"Enough." Dumbledore spoke calmly, evenly, but his tone left no room for argument. Robards sat and Ginny retracted her claws. "Tensions are understandably high, but there is no reason why we cannot be civil."

Harry felt himself smile despite the situation. Who but Albus Dumbledore could make someone feel so thoroughly chastised without so much as raising their voice? _Well. Hermione, but…_

"They have been told of Mr. Malfoy's situation," Dumbledore was saying.

"Then I assume you have questions." Adalia Modi, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, was a slight woman with a remarkably imposing personality (Harry had once seen her stare down Professor Snape, and win). Her pale blue eyes revealed none of the cold hostility shared by her fellow Ministry officials, but rather an honest displeasure for Harry's remarks and a spark of amusement borne out of Robards annoyance. Harry had liked her instantly.

"What would Voldemort want with Malfoy?" Hermione asked, a wicked grin curling her mouth as the Big-Bad Ministry folk flinched at the mention of The Name.

_Oh, yes,_ Harry thought with a roll of his eyes. _I feel so very safe with these people at my back._

"Two reasons," Adalia replied. "One: it seems Mr. Malfoy refused the Dark Mark—"

"_What_!"

"—And two: he wants Mr. Malfoy's blood."

The shock of hearing those four little words—_refused the Dark Mark_—coiled like barbed wire along Harry's spine, cold and sharp. He felt a mirroring sting from Ginny, felt Hermione's hand tighten over his, knew for a certainty that Ron sat motionless and gaping like a fish. For a moment it seemed as though the world had fallen out from beneath him, like everything had just stopped, waiting for his mind to wrap around the shock.

Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Prince extraordinaire, the snarkiest bastard Harry had ever had the misfortune of meeting, had refused his father's legacy, _his_ legacy?

Harry glanced around. Where were the dancing unicorns? The singing hippogriffs? Dumbledore in a tutu? _Something_ to tell him that this was dream and he was going to wake up at any minute and find the world exactly how he had left it. He wasn't sure he could take many more surprises.

"Why would he refuse the Dark Mark?"

"Your guess is as good as ours," Adalia smiled. "It's likely he found the thought of kneeling before You-Know-Who rather unsavory."

Ron snorted. "Right. And maybe he's all rainbows and puppies, too."

Mrs. Weasley clucked her tongue reprovingly at her son, pitting him with a look that clearly said to keep such comments to himself.

"Maybe he didn't like the idea of old Voldie poking at him with a needle," Ginny remarked.

"Also likely," Adalia nodded. "I doubt very much any child of Lucius Malfoy would willingly submit to being anyone's guinea pig."

"What's so important about Malfoy's blood?" Harry asked, although he was fairly certain he already knew the answer.

"He is a male crossbreed with active tendencies," Hermione replied. "Veela blood is a potent substance in and of itself, used to enhance countless potions and to buffer a person's magic when ingested, but Malfoy…"

"If he does possess true veelic tendencies," Adalia said, "a _male crossbreed_, then his blood could very well make You-Know-Who indestructible."

_Right then,_ Harry thought. _Voldemort turning vampire: Bad._ Very_ bad_.

But there was something else. Something smug in the way Robards and Scrimgeour were looking at him. It made Harry distinctly uncomfortable. The Ministry wanted Draco for the information he was privy too, but why the cold smugness? Why the look of…triumph?

Harry stiffened, eyes narrowing on the two men sitting across from him. _They wouldn't_. "What exactly do you want from Malfoy?" he asked, suspicion lacing his words.

Robards revealed a cruel smile. "Why, his knowledge of You-Know-Who's inner circle, of course."

"Which he has offered to _Order_," Harry said. "Not the Ministry."

"We believe he may yet change his mind," Scrimgeour shrugged, a spiteful glint in his yellowish eyes. "With your help."

The hairs at the back of Harry's neck prickled. "And if I refuse? Or if Malfoy decides not to play nice?" He stared at Scrimgeour, the illustrious Minister of Magic, and felt an icy chill down his back. "You would, wouldn't you? You'd ship him off to Azkaban until he changed his mind."

"These are hard times," Robards remarked offhandedly. "And they call for hard measures."

"_Hard measures!_" Harry snapped. "There is no god damned excuse for sending an innocent man to Azkaban!"

"You people," Ron seethed. "Do you owl Voldemort about these meeting or do you prefer face to face?" he spat.

Scrimgeour was on his feet in an instant, face flushed with outrage. "How dare—"

"Shut _up_!" The very room shook as the last of Harry's patience snapped, magic rippling from his body in thick, palpable waves. The Minister was shoved by the sheer force of Harry's fury, stumbling over his feet and slamming back against the wall. "Make a threat like that again," Harry warned, "and I promise you: I will show you exactly why Voldemort fears me."

And with that, he strode from the kitchen, friends close to heel, two dozen pairs of eyes staring after him in shock and awe.

**TBC**

**A/N: Did Voldemort technically "fear" Harry? I always liked to think so but…either way, it makes a hell of a threat, no? What did you think of the whole Harry/Ginny soulmates thing? I promise it will remain entirely platonic—and serves to open a door to future tensions between Ginny and Draco (joy!). Oh, and if you haven't noticed, this story will contain quite a bit of Ministry bashing—hope no one minds :-)**

**Okay, well. Please review…they keep me going.**

_A/N Cont'd: Okay lovies, here's the scoop. I would love to hear any suggestions you might have regarding this story (things you'd like to see happen or said, plot twists, character interactions, etc). I have a fairly good idea how I want this story to progress, but am always open to new ideas. If I like your suggestion/idea enough, I might just incorporate it into the story._

_So, submit a review (or email me) and let me know your thoughts._

_Thanks!_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Welcome back, lovies. To begin: for those who celebrate, **_**Happy Thanksgiving**_**! May you get fat and happy on turkey and pie:-)**** Also, I'd thank all of my lovely reviewers and everyone who's added SSoG to their alerts/favorites lists. You guys rock! Now, I hope you're all prepared for some yummy Harry/Draco tension…because you're going to get it. Yay! Makes you grin like a fool, doesn't it?**

**So please enjoy and don't forget to review!**

Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter Three

There was something to be said for the sheer tenacity of the Ministry and its officials. Had he not despised them for their underhanded tactics, Harry might have felt a grudging respect for their relentlessness. When they set their eye on something, they went for it. No hesitation. No second guessing. They simply pursued until what they wanted was theirs. Never mind the destruction they so often left in their wake, the people they crushed under heel and left to fend for themselves, because blame could always be pushed off on someone else.

And that selfish, callous mindset was what left such a vile taste in Harry's mouth. To be forced to work with such people, to _cooperate_ with them, seemed an impossible task. That they needed the Ministry left Harry feeling irrepressibly dirty.

Following the Potter Rail—as Ginny teasingly deemed it. "Oh, come on. It's funny"—Robards and Scrimgeour had cloistered themselves away in the second floor parlor with select Ministry officials and Order members, doubtlessly bewailing the terrible blow to both their egos. Just imagine, a _child_ speaking to them—_them!_—with such utter disrespect. It was an outrage! Never mind that what they were doing was so far beyond repulsive they were lucky Harry had stopped at threatening.

Lord knew, Harry certainly didn't like Draco, but that was hardly grounds for throwing him into Azkaban. Had he not turned from his own side? Had he not offered intimate details of Voldemort's inner circle? Had he not suffered enough? His mother had been murdered at his father's behest. He had been betrayed by the very people he had been taught to trust. Every belief, every conviction, he had was shattered beyond recognition, perhaps even repair. His world had fallen out from under him, and the Ministry threatened him with _Azkaban_? It was disgusting.

The prickling along his arms told him Ginny sensed his thoughts, sensed the strong emotion behind them, and was quieting them with gentle strokes of their soul-bond.

Harry closed his eyes, the warmth of Ginny's calming touch soothing the tension from his body, relaxing him, restoring an awkward pattern to his thoughts. Hermione liked to tease that Harry was a perpetual scatter-brain, that he couldn't follow a clear, succinct pattern of thought for all the money in Gringotts—to which Harry replied, "Where's the fun in all that perfect order?" He much preferred his own chaos, thank you very much.

_Speaking of chaos_, nudged the Dumbledore-esque voice which had taken up residence in his head.

Scrimgeour had far overstepped his boundary. Harry had never liked the man, but neither had he thought him capable of such cold apathy. Hatred of dark wizards was one thing, but to allow it to consume you, contaminate you, that was where things got murky. Where the idea of sacrificing an innocent for your own gain seemed a fine idea. Where the line between good and bad became blurred, and suddenly everyone who second guessed you was also against you. Where it was your way or no way. Scrimgeour had stepped willingly into those murky lands, home to paranoia and delusion. Harry just hoped their illustrious Minister didn't get lost.

"Mum's been looking everywhere for you."

Harry cracked open an eye, a smile tugging at his lips. "Oh? Did I miss yet another thrilling afternoon of cleaning?"

Ron scowled, shooing Crookshanks away before flopping down into an oversized chair. There were cobwebs in his hair, dust on his clothing, a streak of cleaning potion on his cheek.

"Just come out of the closest, have you?"

"Oh, you're hilarious," Ron replied dryly, combing smudged fingers through his hair. "You know, this is _your_ house, mate. You might think about pitching in every now and then."

"I've been working on the backyard," Harry said around a wide yawn.

Ron eyed him incredulously. "Oh, sure. Because _weeding_ is so much more important than the angry ghoul in the attic."

Harry smirked teasingly, stretching out along the worn-in couch. "I knew you'd understand."

Ron snorted, shaking silvery cobwebs from his fingers. "Just so you know," he said, "you're in for it when mum finds you. You missed lunch, and you know how she gets when you skip a meal."

"Tell that to Dumbledore."

"Had a sit down, did you?"

Harry grimaced, swinging his legs to the floor. "He was, uh, not pleased with my actions."

Propping his feet up on the ottoman, arms folded behind his head, Ron raised a much too amused eyebrow. "You don't say? Imagine. Dumbledore upset over you threatening the Minister of Magic. What's the world coming to?"

"You know? I don't think I like this side of you," Harry frowned

"Oh, you like every side of me," Ron teased with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Harry laughed. "See? Now _that_ is your sister's influence. Best be careful, Ron," he warned with an indulgent smile. "Or Ginny might just corrupt your virginal sensibilities."

Ron batted his eyelashes playfully. "Not with the gallant Harry Potter defending my honor."

A roll of his eyes and Harry stretched back out along the couch, chuckling quietly. _Then again_, he thought, _there's also something to be said for the sheer idiocy of the Ministry and its officials_.

Time and again they failed to realize that Harry was as willing to aid them in their loathsome schemes as he was to shake hands with a Dementor—and the latter was far more likely to happen. He refused to relinquish the reins of his life to people like Robards and Scrimgeour, who made no secret of wanting to control The Boy Who Lived, to manipulate him and bend him to their will.

Harry was no longer the naïve first year, awed by the prospect of _friendship_ and _acceptance_. He had found his voice somewhere between age eleven and age eighteen, found his own inner strength, his own wants and desires. He had learned to say No, to make demands and hold to them, to be selfish, independent, strong-willed…to be a _normal_ person and not simply a naïve child.

He may not have had ultimate control over his fate—and damn if that didn't irk the hell out of him—but he would damn well control _how_ he came to that fate. He simply refused to walk blindly into his so-called destiny.

"And what are you two chortling about?" Hermione leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, a soft smile of her face. She looked fresh from the shower: wet hair pulled back messily, cheeks still pink from the hot water, jeans and tee-shirt spotless and dust free. Harry smiled at her.

"Ron here's trying to seduce me."

"Oh, you know I just want you for your body," Ron replied with a leer.

Hermione clucked her tongue reprovingly, folding herself onto the couch beside Harry, pulling Crookshanks into her lap. "Honestly, Ron, you mustn't be such a tease. People might get the wrong idea."

Lifting his brow in question, Ron asked, "Are you implying that I'm a harlot, Hermione?"

"Of course not," she said in all seriousness, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "Just easy."

"I—"

A door slammed open somewhere above them, heavy footsteps storming towards the staircase. Muffled, arguing voice filtered down through the ceiling.

"Looks like another unproductive day," Harry said.

"Robards and Scrimgeour are still up in a tizzy over your Potter Rail," Ginny said from the doorway. "Rather amusing, actually. Scrimgeour gets this adorable little dimple between his eyes whenever he says your name."

"We call that a scowl," Harry replied.

Ginny tapped her chin thoughtfully. "That would probably explain why he got so angry when I pointed it out to him."

Ron chuckled. "You told the Minister he had an adorable scowl?"

"Well, of course, big brother," she smiled sweetly. "There's no need to be rude to the man even though he's a total wanker."

"No, just point out to everyone that he hates their beloved Savior," Ron said. "Subtle, Gin. Very subtle."

"It isn't my fault the man's an idiot," she replied, reclining on the arm of her brother's chair, ruffling his hair with a blithe grin. "If he wants to ostracize himself from those of us supporting Harry, then who am I to argue?"

"You sure you're not the one doing the ostracizing?"

Ginny's reply was swallowed by the deafening chime of every clock in the house, followed by the horrid screeching of Mrs. Black's portrait and a frantic scramble to shut her up before every other portrait in the house started screaming. The clocks had all been spelled to chime but once during the entire day, at precisely 5:17 p.m., and no one had yet been able to un-spell them.

Harry sighed, pushing himself to his feet with more than a touch of reluctance. "I've another sit down with Dumbledore," he said.

"First lesson with Malfoy, eh?"

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Harry set off. "Don't remind me."

* * *

If not for the sound of Draco's shallow breathing, Harry might have thought he was sitting next to a corpse. Deathly pale complexion, dark shadows beneath sunken eyes, impossibly still and silent. His blonde hair hung limp and unwashed, his clothing rumpled and apparently unchanged. He looked for all the world as though he had given up on life; he had fulfilled his promise to the Order, disclosed what information was asked of him, and seemed now to be waiting for that final rest.

Harry felt an erratic mix of emotion bubble up within him. His heart went out to his long standing adversary, sympathized with him over such a terrible loss. But coiled around that sympathy was a sense of disappointment, of anger, that Draco was so willing to lay down and die, to give up on a life less than half lived. Harry could imagine the all-consuming grief, had harbored it himself long after Sirius had died, but he could not imagine letting it consume him, defeat him. But then, Harry had had friends to help him through it, to support him and comfort him and give him reason to fight.

Who did Draco have?

His former Housemates had all gladly kneeled before the madness of Lord Voldemort. What true friends he may have had were now his enemies, sworn to kill him on sight for his betrayal. He was forced to live among people who neither liked him nor trusted him, who saw him simply as a Malfoy, truly his father's son, out for himself and no one else. He was drowning in his misery and no one around him noticed or cared.

A sudden lash of anger made Harry jump. _Bloody hell_, he thought sourly, drawing himself back to the present, re-erecting his mental shields. _Tone it down a bit, Gin._

"And how is Miss Weasley?" Dumbledore asked, a twinkle of amusement in his watery blue eyes.

"Not happy," Harry replied, soothing her anger with a stroke of their soul-bond, ignoring her spark of irritation. A hazy image flitted through his mind, a tug in his belly urging him downstairs as he caught a whiff of cologne, warm and earthy, reminding him of Ron. "I think she may have murdered Ron in the parlor with a candlestick, sir."

Dumbledore smiled at the muggle reference. "Perhaps a calming touch is in order?"

"Already done, sir."

"Excellent. Then shall we begin?"

Draco was staring at him. He could feel those cold, silver-grey eyes burning a path down his body, a spark of curiosity bringing life to his previously lifeless corpse. Harry again felt a misplaced sense of elation at evoking Draco to emotion, and again felt certain he was going mad because of it. But what else was he to think when he alone seemed able to stoke life back into a body that had given it up?

"As you are aware Harry," Dumbledore said. "A stipulation of Mr. Malfoy's agreement with the Order was that you and he would participate in cooperative lessons."

_And of course you made this agreement on my behalf without even asking me_, Harry thought somewhat sullenly, but said only, "Yes, sir."

"As you are also aware," Dumbledore continued, a knowing glint in his eye, "this agreement was made entirely with both your interests in mind."

Harry flushed abashedly, looking away. _How does he do that?_

"For your sake, Mr. Malfoy, Harry shall instruct you on the proper techniques of channeling and wandless magic, for which you appear to have a natural aptitude."

Draco stiffened at the subtle reference to his veelic heritage, and Harry felt a prickling of magic along his spine, sharp and erratic. He remembered Hermione telling him that halfbreed veela often suffered uncontrolled magical outbursts during times of strong emotional turmoil, something to do with the body's inability to cope with such an urgent surge of alien magic. Of course, for all anybody knew, Draco, the infamous _male_ crossbreed, might very well blow up the house with his outbursts—so Harry shifted his leg, pressing it lightly against Draco's, buffering his uncontrolled magic with an effortless brush of his own.

Draco jerked away, a startled expression on his pallid face. "What…" his voice cracked, still dry and raspy like old parchment, like he hadn't spoken in years.

Harry shrugged casually, inwardly dancing a merry jig at the blatant emotion shining through his adversaries eyes. "It's called Soothing," he said. "It's a channeling technique."

"All in good time, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore smiled. "In the meanwhile, I'd like for you to get acquainted with one another."

Harry nearly choked on his own breath. _Acquainted? With Malfoy? Was Dumbledore high?_ For all his conflicting emotion in regard to Draco's situation, Harry was hardly looking to befriend the snarky little ferret. He doubted even if those icy Malfoy walls were penetrable. He certainly had never seen any evidence of an actual human being dwelling beneath that infamous façade.

_But just maybe…_,whispered the traitorous voice in his head. _Maybe there's more here than meets the eye._

Harry frowned. _Oh, shut up._

"In a few days perhaps, when you are suitably comfortable with each other," Dumbledore was saying, "you shall begin your lessons. Mr. Malfoy shall be teaching you the finer points of black magic, Harry."

"Yes, sir." As if he could forget.

"Wonderful. Then I shall leave you to it. Good day, boys."

And with that he was gone, leaving behind a terribly thick and awkward silence.

_I swear he does that on purpose, the meddling bastard,_ Harry grumbled fondly. He fidgeted uneasily in his seat, all too aware of the warm body beside him. Of _whose_ warm body it was.

Hermione had told them to make nice with Malfoy. Well. Here was his chance. But how exactly does one go about making small talk with their long-standing rival? More to the point, did he even _want_ to make small talk? What could they possibly have to say to one another? Harry doubted very much that Draco would appreciate his condolences, never mind his reaction should he find out that Harry, for whatever inconceivable reason, actually wanted to _help_ him.

So the silence dragged on. Harry crossed and uncrossed his arms several times before exhaling a bored breath, climbing to his feet. The room was hot, stuffy, the air uncomfortably dry. Crossing the room, he pushed open the lone window, turning his back to the cool breeze. It was a relatively small room, a long-unused study on the third floor. The fireplace was cold, the mahogany desk still dust-speckled, the padded chairs worn in and frayed. A bookcase sat half-filled against the east wall opposite an empty liqueur cabinet.

Harry drummed his fingers against the windowsill. They were supposed to spend the next few hours like this? Sitting in this tense, awkward silence? Draco looking for all the world like a forgotten corpse and Harry bored to the point of tears?

_Screw that,_ Harry thought, reclining back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. A bitching contest would be better than this awful silence. "So, Malfoy…"

Nothing. Not even a twitch. He just sat there, staring blankly at the floor, doing a damn fine impression of a statue.

Harry frowned. He was torn. On the one hand, he should have been ecstatic over his rival's downfall—celebrating with party hats and noisemakers and sickly-sweet cake. On the other, he remained host to an irrational jumble of emotions—pity, disappointment, worry. Two mindsets warring within him, when all he really wanted was to go back to ignoring Draco Malfoy's existence altogether, to feeling nothing at all about the once-named Slytherin Prince. Was that too much to ask for?

"How did you do it?"

Harry started at the sound of Draco's dry, raspy voice, eyes wide as he turned to look at the now partially animated corpse. "It speaks," he remarked with equal shock and amusement.

Draco gave him a half-hearted glare, a glimpse of the snide little ferret Harry had come to know and loathe.

Harry lifted a wry eyebrow, saying, "How do I refuse when you ask so nicely?"

_Wait for it,_ murmured his nosey-parker inner voice. _Wait for it…there!_

_There what you annoying little— _Harry perked up, a flip-flop of emotion in his belly. _Is that…_

It was. A sneer. An honest to god, you-aren't-worth-the-dirt-on-my-shoes Malfoy sneer. Harry just barely restrained himself from pumping his fist in the air.

"What are you staring at, Potter?"

_And that tone_…So full of arrogance and disdain. Harry could have done back flips. Who would have thought so much life remained in that withering corpse? Perhaps there was hope yet for this lifeless creature sitting in front of him.

"Soothing is a pretty basic channeling technique," Harry said, answering Draco's previous question with effortless deduction—_what the hell else would he be asking about? _"It's sort of like a shield charm, putting up a barrier around a person's magic to keep it from running amuck. But only if the person willingly allows it. Soothing can't be done on someone who doesn't agree to it."

"I hardly agreed," Draco sneered.

"Maybe not consciously," Harry replied with a sly smile. "But you were definitely in need of a good Soothing. Your veela magic is out of control."

"What the hell is it to you, Potter?"

"Well. Considering you might blow up my house if you don't get a handle on it, I'd say it's something to me."

Draco scowled, looking away.

_Back to this are we?_ Harry sighed, pushing himself away from the window. "Look, Malfoy," he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. "I'm sure you want to be here about as much as you want a hole in the head, but if you don't learn to control your veela magic you could do some real damage."

"Gee, Potter. I never knew you cared," said Draco with cold sarcasm.

Harry ignored him. "Again," he said. "Pointing out that you pose the greatest danger to _my house_."

When he received only silence, Harry drew in a long, slow breath, a frown pulling at his mouth. _Do I really want to play this card now?_ he thought. He was well aware that with Draco on their side, _by_ his side, Voldemort would never stand a chance. _But,_ tickled the voice inside his head._ Just how far, how _low_, are you willing to go in order to secure his allegiance_?

Another slow breath, and Harry said, "I can help you, Malfoy. I can teach you how to channel your magic, how to control it, but you have to let me."

"And why," Draco replied venomously, "would I do that?"

_It has to be done. _"Because I can help you get vengeance for your mother's death."

Draco looked at him sharply, wariness and a sudden spark of hope warring in his silver-grey eyes. He wanted desperately to believe Harry, to believe the promise in his words—the promise of vengeance on those who had so cruelly betrayed him—but a past rife with hatred tempered his zeal.

"Why?"

"You think you're the only one seeking vengeance?" Harry replied, feeling sick with every spoken word. "Have you forgotten, Malfoy? Voldemort murdered my parents. Cedric died because of him and Sirius…" He looked away, swallowing the grief that threatened to choke him. "Of course, you know it's more than just vengeance for me," he said. "But that doesn't mean our ambitions aren't the same. We can help each other. We hardly have to like one another to work together."

It was a dirty trick, pandering to Draco's Slytherin nature—and Harry _felt_ dirty using it, but sometimes unsavory things had to be done for the greater good. And keeping Draco out of Azkaban was, for the moment, the greater good. So long as he appeared to be cooperating with Harry, the Ministry couldn't touch him. No doubt Hermione, not to mention Dumbledore, would be displeased with his choice of tactics, voicing instead the need for honesty. The only problem with honesty was Harry worried that, in his current mind frame, Draco might actually _want_ rot away in an Azkaban cell—all the better to end his downward spiral into the bottomless pit of grief that was slowly consuming him.

_All he needs_, Harry thought. _Is a reason to fight, a reason to want to live. And what better reason for a Slytherin, a _Malfoy_, than vengeance?_

Of course, rationalizing his use of underhanded tactics did little to ease Harry's self-disgust. It was something the Ministry would do, manipulating this broken boy sitting before him. But what other choice did he have? If Draco refused to cooperate he _would_ be hauled off to Azkaban, and Harry simply refused to allow that. If dirty tricks was what it took, than dirty tricks it would be…but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Let's start simple," he said, leaning back on his hands, legs dangling a few inches off the floor. "Tell me about your tendencies."

Draco stiffened defensively, eyes suddenly cold and empty.

"Oh, for god's sake," Harry sighed with a roll of his eyes. "I'm well aware of your unique gene pool, Malfoy. Cut the shit, would you? It's a simple question."

Strangely enough, the open hostility seemed to relax Draco—which really wasn't all that strange at all. It was familiar territory. Comfortable territory. He knew the rules of this game, had helped design them and implement them. Had Harry offered kind words and compassion, he would have closed up tighter than Scrimgeour's ass.

"I came in to my…_inheritance_ on the eve of my eighteenth birthday. It was a remarkably unpleasant experience," he said snidely. "Rather like being boiled alive and then flayed. Mother later told me I shrieked like a banshee and that my skin blazed and burned to the touch." He scowled at the hands folded in his lap, casting a fleeting, hostile glance at Harry. "It was my previously dormant veela heritage waking up. Of course, it was never supposed to wake up in the first place."

Harry scratched the bridge of his nose, asking, "What side of the family does it come from?"

Draco's scowl deepened. "Father's. Ironic, no?" he said, a bitter amusement lacing his words. "So insistent as he was of our pure-blood status."

"So you didn't know?"

"Of course I didn't know! Why in the world would my father reveal such an awful weakness? That the illustrious Malfoy progeny is actually a heritage of filthy…_half-bloods_," he spat.

"My, aren't we a ball of sunshine," Harry muttered. "Remind me to invite you to the next Death Party."

"It's easy for you," Draco sneered. "You've known all along about your dirty blood."

Harry forced himself to draw in a slow, calming breath. Throttling the pompous little ferret would get them nowhere—enjoyable though the thought was. Instead he asked, "What happened after you came in to your inheritance?"

Draco leaned forward, a mocking smile on his pale face, silver-grey eyes glaring at Harry. "You mean after I passed out from the sheer agony and woke up two days later?"

"If you'd like," Harry shrugged dismissively, refusing to be drawn in to a pointless bitch-fest. "Did you notice any significant changes?"

"Other than glowing like a bloody Christmas tree?"

Harry remained silent, head cocked ever-so slightly to the side, legs still dangling uselessly over the edge of the desk. He ignored Draco's baiting sarcasm, knowing that his silence would infuriate the Slytherin Priss above any verbal retort he might make. _Keep him angry_, he thought, _and keep him talking_.

"Fine," he snapped. "I noticed a sensitivity to magic."

"Your magic, or magic in general?"

"Magic in general."

Harry perked up at this, sitting up straight. "You could sense when magic was being used?" A nod. "Where it was being used and by whom?" Another nod. "And could you sense the difference between, say, a wizard's magic and a house elf's?"

Draco hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face.

"A wizard's magic," Harry said, "is sharp and definitive. It sort of…prickles at the back of your neck, down your arms. A house elf's magic is softer, but no less potent. It sort of—"

"Itches your nose."

Harry felt himself smile despite the air of hostility. "Not so different after all, are we, Malfoy? Both half-bloods. Both lost our parents to Voldemort. We even share this strange little talent. Maybe we should get his-and-hers tee-shirts."

With a snarl, Draco was on his feet, eyes blazing dangerously at the flippant boy reclining so casually before him. "This isn't a fucking _joke_, Potter!"

"I never said it was," Harry replied coolly.

"Then stop making a god damned joke _out of it_!"

A heavy tome flew off the bookcase at mind-bending speed and Harry barely managed to deflect it with an unspoken spell and flick of his wrist. It slammed into the wall with a resounding _thud!_, cracking the paint-chipped plaster. Harry released a breath, sliding to his feet. _That was almost my head_, he thought. _Damn_.

Draco was still on his feet, anger rolling off of him in palpable waves, a faint luminescence to his pale skin.

"That was interesting," Harry said, still staring at the book as he extended a Soothing touch to Draco's thrumming magic. "You're lucky I have a Seeker's reflexes or you'd be in hot water with Dumbledore right about now."

When he was answered only by silence, Harry glanced over his shoulder. Draco stood frozen in time it seemed. A furious scowl on his face, fists clenched tightly at his sides, a steady glow to his skin. But under that, hovering just beneath the surface of that anger, Harry glimpsed something else: fear and self-disgust. And he felt his heart clench.

Draco was floundering in a reality unknown and unfamiliar to him; a reality where his every belief and conviction had been forcefully stripped from him, leaving him cold and hollow inside. He had no friends, no allies, no foundation on which to build anew. He was suffering his betrayal alone, grieving in ways Harry could only imagine. And he was struggling to control a nature he neither wanted nor understood, his stubborn pride keeping him from asking for help.

Harry may not have liked Draco, but it seemed he _was_ going to care—whether he wanted to or not.

"Close your eyes," he said.

Draco shot him a look that was slightly patronizing and entirely incredulous—the sort of look you give a bloke who's just confessed to being Merlin himself.

Harry clenched his jaw. _Silly me for thinking he'd make this easy_. "Just…close your eyes."

Draco hesitated, a bit longer than was necessary, but did close his eyes.

_It's like pulling teeth out of a dragon_. "Now take a breath and relax. I'm not going to jinx you," he said, still emitting a Soothing touch. "Good. Now focus. Feel the magic moving through your body. Follow it inward. Find its pulse. Concentrate on it like you would if you were casting a spell. Got it? Now put a damn stopper in it."

A tense moment passed where nothing happened. Harry was just about to repeat his instructions when he felt Draco's magic recede, saw the luminescence of his skin fade to nothing. With a pleased sigh he withdrew his Soothing. "With enough practice," he said, "you'll be able to do that effortlessly."

Draco looked at him, a mix of wariness and curiosity coloring his features.

"Basic channeling," Harry explained. "In order to perform wandless magic you have to first be able to _control_ your magic. Most people can't, which is why we use wands. They focus our magic, control it for us so we can perform spells without blowing ourselves up."

An immaterial whiff of chicken and pumpkin juice caught his attention, and he felt Ginny reaching out to him through their soul-bond. "I think we can call it a day," he said, stretching his arms over his head. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving." Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back at Draco, who remained motionless and frowning in the middle of the room. With the faintest of smiles, and quiet amusement in his eyes, Harry asked, "Are you coming?"

**TBC**

**A/N: Oh, my. I do believe that was what we simple folk call a _breakthrough. _And no, there isn't going to be an "instant friendship" between Harry and Draco—that would just be too easy (and rob us all of lots more snarky!Draco). Oh, and please tell me what you think of Harry being all Ministry-like and underhanded in manipulating Draco to cooperate (although, was it **_**really**_** manipulation?); I wasn't all that sure about it, but it fit with the story so I did it…Anyway. Review and tell me all your thoughts!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Just a few notes before you dive in: (1) **_**Italics**_** indicate a dream sequence (as if you couldn't figure that out all on your onesies); (2) Sorry lovies, no Harry/Draco in this chapter (next one, I promise); (3) I'm introducing another (somewhat) unique idea in this chapter (I hope it's to your liking). Hmm. I believe that about covers it. Please read and enjoy, and don't forget to review…**

Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter Four

_The sky is overcast and dreary, the air cool and damp against his skin. The scent of wet earth, sweet pine, and rain waft in the soft breeze, ruffling his dark hair. His clothing is strange but not unfamiliar, his feet bare in the rain-slick grass. Around him stretch fields of lavender and sunflowers, dotted here and there by short, squat trees. It is a scene Harry knows well. One he treasures and adores._

_Three paces to the right there is a bole with a lightning scar through its center—Harry remembers clearly the deafening _crack!_, the fantastic shower of sparks, the sweet smell of burning wood—and he sits, waiting quietly, listening to the deep rumbling of far distant thunder._

_A dusky sun peaks through the shifting clouds, a fleeting warmth touching his skin. He wiggles his toes in the wet grass, a smile playing on his lips. It is his favorite time of day, these precious minutes following a heavy storm when the earth is still sodden and fresh, still saturated with the scent of dirt and grass and rain. He loves the absolute silence, the absolute honesty of a storm-ravaged earth laid bare and open for all to see—every scar, every fault, every detail brought to light by harsh winds and unforgiving rains—all revealed with such awesome humility. It is truly humbling, for what man could ever claim such naked honesty with the world?_

_Muffled footsteps approach from behind, steady and sure. A warm aroma coils around him, stirring memories of mornings spent happily in the Weasley kitchen, surrounded by a family that had become his own, and afternoons spent laughing with friends he could no more live without than he could the breath in his lungs. And then a hand is on his shoulder, a smiling face is looking down at him, strong arms are enfolding him, holding him close as he struggles with the tears that always come, that always burn slow trails down his cheeks._

"_Hey, kiddo," whispered tearfully against his ear._

_Harry pulls away, a single tear clinging to the tip of his nose. "Hi," he says with a watery smile, wiping his eyes with a guileless sniff._

_Sirius brushes unruly locks from Harry's eyes, holding his face between his palms as he just…looks. His thumb wipes away a stray tear and he smiles. Their meetings always begin with tears, with hesitant touches and soft, grateful smiles._

_Overhead, the sky begins to clear. Bright rays of sunlight pierce the cold, grey clouds amidst clearings of spotless blue. Harry wraps gentle hands around Sirius's wrists, the warmth of his palms a familiar, comforting touch. He doesn't know why these meetings began or how Sirius is able to reach him through the Veil, but he does know that they are real and not simply the desperate dreams of a desolate heart._

"_You look tired," Sirius says._

_Harry shrugs. "No more than usual."_

_Sirius's mouth gives an amused twitch, fingers combing dark locks behind Harry's ear. "That's a lie if ever I heard one."_

_Harry smiles and shrugs again. He likes that Sirius stands before him without the vile taint of Azkaban weighing him down. Gone was the prison-ravaged body, the sickly-pale skin, the sunken eyes and dark circles, the terrible grief and loneliness—all replaced with the flawless features of the handsome man he would have become had Azkaban not claimed him._

"_Things are a bit…tense right now," Harry says._

"_Tense?"_

"_Hmm." He plucks at a speck of nonexistent lint on Sirius's shirt, eyes refusing to look up. "I might have, sort of…threatened the Minister."_

_There is a moment of silence, and then…laughter. Deep, rumbling laughter that Harry can feel through the hands gripping his shoulders. "Oh Merlin, Harry, you didn't," Sirius chuckles._

"_He's lucky that's all I did," Harry murmurs darkly, remembering the smug look of triumph on Scrimgeour's face._

"_What'd he do this time?"_

"_Malfoy made a deal with the Order," Harry explains. "Protection from Voldemort and his father in exchange for information. But, of course, Scrimgeour wants that information for himself, so what does the smarmy bastard do? Goes and threatens to send Malfoy to Azkaban if he refuses to cooperate!"_

_Sirius is smiling a reminiscent smile, fingers smoothing out the collar of Harry's shirt. "Your mother once did something very similar," he say, his fathomless grey eyes seeming to melt into Harry's. "The Minister at the time wanted to chuck a defector into Azkaban after he confessed everything he knew. Lily hit him with a body-bind and promised to, uh, _unman_ him if he so much as thought the idea again."_

"_Did she really?"_

"_She was pistol, your mum." Sirius smiles sadly, fingertips brushing across Harry's cheek. "You're a lot like her," he says. "A lot like James too."_

_Harry again grips Sirius's wrist and feels the warmth of his palm seeping into his skin. "Stop it," he whispers gently, forcing away the tears that threaten to spill down his face. "Or you're going to make me cry."_

_Sirius wraps Harry in his arms, his own tears falling freely as he buries his face against Harry's neck. _

_Tears so often dominate their meetings. Tears of grief, of joy, of regret. Tears shed amid warm embraces and amid moments of desperate clinging. Tears shed for every reason in the world and for no reason at all. Perhaps it was fitting. Perhaps it was the way it needed to be…or perhaps it was simply the way _they_ needed it to be._

"_So how is everyone?" Sirius asks when his tears have dried, his breath warm against Harry's neck._

"_Alright, I guess," Harry says, pulling away to look Sirius in the eye. "Hermione sends her love."_

"_And…Remus?"_

_Harry smiles softly, knowingly, brushing a stray tear from Sirius's cheek. "He's good."_

_A sparkle suddenly lights up his eyes, and Sirius looks so much like a hopeful child on Christmas morning. "Yeah?"_

"_I think he still gets lonely sometimes," Harry says, "but…yeah, he's doing good."_

"_You're taking care of him, aren't you?"_

"_I promised you I would."_

_For a moment Sirius seems so far away, so lost in memories long past. But then he blinks, a sigh falling from his lips, and says, "So tell me about my dear cousin. How is he taking his mother's death?"_

_Harry doesn't ask how Sirius knows about Narcissa Malfoy's death because it seems right somehow, fitting in some strange, unexplainable way, that he should just _know_ such things. "Not well," he says. "If I weren't so sure he was breathing I'd think he was a walking corpse."_

"_Have you learned anything about his, uh, tendencies?"_

"_Only that they're volatile," Harry replies, brushing his fingers against the back of Sirius's hand, smiling as he does so. This need to touch one another, to constantly assure themselves that the other is there and real, is a rather silly thing that at times offers Harry a mild and bitter amusement, and at others a terrible sadness because he knows that when he wakes, Sirius will no longer be there._

"_Don't turn away from him, Harry. There's something at work here," Sirius says. "I can feel it. Draco is important somehow. Just like you," he smiles, fingertip tracing his jaw. "You'll need one another for what's coming."_

_Harry wants to ask what he means, but a tug in his belly makes him look up. The scenery is beginning to blur and fade. "I have to go," he says, feeling his physical mind start to waken._

_Sirius hugs him one last time, touches his cheek. "Protect him," he says as he begins to fade into the vanishing background. "Til next time, kiddo," whispered like a caress against his ear._

* * *

Harry yawned and stretched his body out across the king-size bed. His eyes fluttered open slowly. Slips of sunlight leaked through the heavy window curtains as they flapped in the cool morning breeze—but otherwise the room was dark.

The bedside clock read 8:16. Mrs. Weasley would be setting out breakfast soon. Harry drew in a long breath through his nose, shifting his legs as he pushed himself up. "Ever heard of knocking?" he muttered, covering another yawn.

The lamp clicked on and Harry blinked into the sudden brightness. Ginny was beside him, sitting cross-legged in her flannel pajamas, a worried frown on her face. "What happened?" she asked. "I woke up twenty minutes ago feeling like I'd been punched in the gut and this close to bawling my eyes out."

"I talked to Sirius."

Ginny let out a relieved breath. "Is that all? Merlin Harry, I thought maybe you'd had another vision." Then she scowled and smacked him across the head. "You have _got_ to learn to shield yourself better," she said. "I don't appreciate being woken up at all hours of the night just because you have a bad dream."

Harry frowned. "Sirius isn't a bad dream."

"Well, of course he isn't, but that still doesn't mean I need to wake up on the verge of tears every time you talk to him," she said in exasperation. "How is he, anyway?"

Harry shrugged and looked away, scratching the bridge of his nose. He had never been comfortable talking about this _thing_ he shared with Sirius, had never liked to discuss what it was they talked about or what they did. Hermione had looked into it early on, determined to understand what exactly was happening. Were the meetings _real_? If yes, then how was Sirius able to reach out to Harry through the Veil? What exactly happened to a person after they fell through the Veil? Had such a thing ever happened before or was Harry a unique case? In the end, Hermione found very little. Apparently the Department of Mysterious liked to keep their secrets just that: secret.

For a time, they had badgered Harry for details, wanting to know anything and everything. If these meetings_ were_ real—and Harry very much insisted that they were—then the implications were incredible! Perhaps the Veil afforded some sort of link between life and death, a portal, perhaps, to a place somewhere in-between. They had asked question after question, fascinated and parched for any snippet of information. After several days of abiding their endless curiosity, refusing to answer their questions as kindly as possible, Harry finally snapped and told them all to "bugger the hell off!" before slamming a door in their faces and refusing to talk to them for three days.

That had been the summer after fifth year, when his grief had still been raw and his heart had still been very much broken. That had also been the summer when their soul-bond had first surfaced.

Ginny remembered waking up at two in the morning with such an overpowering sense of grief she could hardly breath. She remembered stumbling out of bed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she made her way through the house on shaky legs, only vaguely aware of what she was doing but _knowing_ that Harry needed her. She remembered finding Harry hiding in an empty parlor, curled up in the corner sobbing his eyes out, and she remembered wrapping him in her arms, soothing his grief with an effortless stroke of their soul-bond (although at the time she hadn't a clue what she was doing, knowing only that Harry had needed it).

They never talked about that night to anyone, not even to Ron and Hermione. It was something private, something special just between them. A precious memory shared only with each other.

A wash of emotion drew Ginny back to the present. She sighed wearily, shoving the alien mix of sorrow, joy, and bitterness out of her mind. She really hadn't been joking when she'd told Harry to work on his shielding. For all that he was _one of the most powerful wizards in the world_ blah, blah, blah…when it came to maintaining a basic mental shield, Harry really, truly, honestly, sucked great big monkey balls. It was the strangest thing. He could erect a nearly impenetrable shield to keep Voldemort _out_ of his mind and yet, for the life of him, he didn't seem able to keep his emotions _in_. Much to Ginny's usual dismay.

_Although,_ she admitted, _there are times when his total inability comes in handy_. It certainly saved her the effort of trying to guess what was bothering him—especially when he outright denied that anything was wrong. It also gave her an insider's scoop into the Savior's psyche, which usually proved all too amusing. Like now, for instance. Ginny was well aware of Harry's cha-cha-ing emotions in regards to a certain former Slytherin Prince—as well as his own self-denial in regards to said emotions' existence. Harry seemed to be trying very hard to feel absolutely _nothing_ about Draco, and was succeeding only in making himself feel absolutely _everything_. It really was quite funny. The harder he pushed the emotions away, the harder they came back to bite him in the ass.

Now, admittedly, Ginny had been rather off-put to discover that Harry had begun to—_Dare I say it?_—_care_ about what happened to Draco, but realized soon enough how silly she was being. Of course Harry would care—it was what he did; part of who he was. Asking him to stop caring about those in need was like asking Hermione to give up her books…which was also what made his struggle to _not care_ so endlessly amusing for Ginny. She knew that _he_ knew it was a hopeless struggle, and yet he struggled anyway. _Stubborn as a mule, that one_, she thought fondly. _Observant as a rock, too_. If he hadn't been so focused on pretending the emotions did not exist, he might have noticed that they'd already planted roots and set up shop.

Another jolt of emotion startled her from her thoughts. "Would you put a lid on it, already?" she said, massaging the throbbing headache at her temples. "We _really_ need to work on your shielding."

Harry bristled defensively. "My shielding is fine."

"Oh? So you, what? Purposely wake me up at hours of the night thinking you're being murdered in your sleep because you, what? Want to share?"

"No," Harry muttered sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And it's not 'all hours' of the night."

"Last week you woke me up at a quarter to three because you were having a rather," Ginny paused, an amused smirk on her face, "_amorous_ dream."

Harry blushed five shades of red, eyes wide and all-too embarrassed. "You didn't…"

Ginny lifted a single, well-manicured eyebrow, a dry smile on her face. "Oh, I did," she said. "And bravo on your stamina, by the way. Very impressive."

Harry buried his face in his hands, feeling Ginny's quiet laughter. _This is not happening_, he thought.

"And let's not forget the nights you're _actually_ have sex," Ginny remarked.

Harry looked up, horrified. "You…?"

Ginny nodded.

"Oh, god." Harry slumped back against the headboard, looking utterly miserable. "This is so humiliating."

"Like I said. You're absolute rubbish at shielding."

"Then why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Why would I do that?" Ginny replied with a teasing smile. "I haven't felt this well shagged since…ever."

Harry pulled a face, tossing a pillow at her. "What are you, a voyeur now?"

"When the occasion calls," she said with efficient cheek.

"I've half a mind to tell your mother," Harry said.

"Go ahead," Ginny shrugged. "And maybe I'll let slip you're sleeping with her son."

"You play a dirty game, Weasley."

Ginny grinned, tossing the pillow back at him. "Oh, you love it dirty."

Harry laughed, pushing his bed sheets aside and swinging his feet to the floor. "I surrender," he said, knowing well enough it was impossible to beat Ginny at almost anything—usually because she had an uncanny ability to _cheat _to at almost anything.

Running a hand through his perpetually-messy hair, he shuffled himself into the bathroom. He yawned widely, running his toothbrush under the faucet. It was a rather impressive bathroom, he had to admit. Twin vanities, massive soaking tub and separate shower, enough floor space to throw a small party. _Hell,_ Harry thought, splashing warm water on his face, _even the damn toilet looks fit for royalty_.

Brushing a comb through his hair—_Why do I even bother?_—he switched off the light and returned to his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Ginny, as usual, had made herself comfortable: curled up in the huge bed, her hair reasonably tousled, watching him with a sleepy smile, looking every inch a debauched angel. Harry rolled his eyes. _Angel my ass,_ he thought, stripping off his slept-in shirt and rummaging through his drawers for a clean one.

"Check the closet," Ginny said around a yawn. "Mum was in here tidying up the other day."

Harry looked at her with laughter in his eyes. "You planning to stay in bed all day?" he asked as he crossed the room.

"I wish," she replied, turning over to face him. "Your bed is so much more comfortable than mine."

"How do I not have a clean shirt?" Harry shoved aside articles of clothing, trousers mostly, and a few random jackets. "Didn't your mum just do laundry?"

"You can always wear one of mine," Ginny offered, the innocence in her voice belied by the mischievousness in her eyes.

"Oh, yes," Harry replied wryly. "I'd look just smashing in a shirt with pink hearts and butterflies."

"Bite your tongue!" Ginny snapped, looking horrified at there mere mention of hearts and butterflies. "I own nothing of the sort."

"Oh, that's right. You prefer unicorns and rainbows."

"If I didn't love you Harry, I'd kill you where you stand."

The bathroom door creaked, and they both looked up to find Draco standing in the doorway, looking as much the part of a walking corpse as ever, a strangely guarded expression on his face.

"Morning, Malfoy," Ginny chirped cheerfully.

He stared at them for a several heartbeats and then shut the door with a firm shove, sliding the lock into place.

Ginny frowned. "Not much of a morning person, is he?"

"Guess not," Harry replied absently, clawing through a pile of clothes on the closet floor. Spotting a flash of red, he pulled the tee-shirt free, gave it a cursory sniff, then spun around with a victorious smile. "Found one!"

* * *

Harry knocked softly, balancing the tray of food against his hip. He waited a heartbeat before turning the knob and pushing the door open. The room was blanketed in darkness; thick, heavy curtains pulled tightly across the closed window. He felt a tingle of magic along his arms as he crossed the threshold. _Wards_, he mused. _A pretty heavy silencing spell, too._

He pushed the door shut with his foot, setting the tray down on the dresser. He dismantled the wards with a wave of his hand and a muttered spell, crossing the room to open the window. The room was stuffy with warm, stale air and reeked of sweat, fur, and something faintly metallic and sweet. _Blood_, he thought, pushing the curtains aside.

A cool morning breeze wafted in amid the wash of pale sunlight. Harry breathed deeply before turning towards the bed. Remus was draped across the bare mattress, naked and seemingly dead to the world. His arms and legs were littered with cuts and bruises and a nasty row of scratches still bled against his chest. Harry sighed. He hated seeing Remus like this. Hated knowing that he had done this to himself, that even the wolfsbane potion could not always subdue the wolf's overwhelming anger and grief over the loss of its mate.

_You promised Sirius you would take of him…_

Harry scowled at himself, taking note of each new scratch, each new soon-to-be scar. _Some caretaker I turned out to be._

Retrieving a bowl of water and a cloth from the bathroom, Harry crawled onto the bed and set about cleaning each new wound. Remus stirred fitfully and made the occasional whimper of pain. Harry always felt like a poor substitute tending to Remus after the full moon. _It should be Sirius sitting here_, he thought sadly. _It should be Sirius's touch he's leaning against. Sirius he wraps himself around because he hurts and needs comfort._

_But Sirius isn't here…_

Remus was clinging to him when he set the bowl aside, a look of pained sorrow on his sleeping face. Harry summoned a blanket and covered them both, fingers combing through Remus's damp hair.

His old professor had come far since those first weeks following Sirius's death. The memory of a lost and heartbroken Remus Lupin had seared itself into Harry's psyche—something he would never be able to shake off nor forget. For months, Remus had withdrawn so deeply inside himself they'd all feared they may have lost him for good. He scarcely ate, scarcely slept, scarcely spoke. Days would pass without him uttering a single word to anyone. He simply locked himself away in his room and just…sat there.

They all thought it best to leave him be, to let him come to terms with Sirius's death in his own way and in his own time. All except Harry. He understood all too well what Remus was going through because he was suffering the same. The grief, the anger, the sense of betrayal, the guilt. So while everyone else offered distance and time, Harry offered comfort and shared tears. They grieved together, remembered together, and in time, healed together (although Harry never confessed his meetings with Sirius, knowing how fragile Remus's heart had become).

But there were still nights when the memory of Sirius became too much to bear. Too much for the _wolf_ to bear.

_And so I find him like this…_

Remus stirred, groaning quietly.

Carefully, Harry disentangled himself and slipped out of bed. These mornings were awkward enough for Remus without having to wake up naked and cuddled against his dead lover's godson.

Harry returned to the bathroom to pour out the bloody water and _scourgify_ the cloth. By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, Remus had pulled on his robe and was standing in front of the open window cradling a cup of coffee in his hands.

Hearing his footsteps, Remus turned with a small, tired smile. "Morning."

"Are you hungry?" Harry asked.

Remus shook his head, turning back to stare out the window.

It was a well worn routine between them, and Harry had long ago accepted his role. While Remus stared unseeingly out the window, as still and silent as any statue, lost in memories that would forever haunt him, Harry put fresh sheets on the bed, repaired broken furniture, and cleaned up the blood—all the while allowing Remus the time he needed to sort through the grief of waking up without Sirius there beside him.

A whispered spell reheated the food he'd brought up and Harry moved the tray to the bedside table. "Come and eat, Remus."

"What time is it?"

Harry slid down the wall with a sigh, pulling his knees to his chest. "Half past nine," he said.

Remus nodded, picking up a piece of dry toast. "How was your lesson with Malfoy?" he asked.

"Surprisingly eventful."

"Oh?" Remus glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "How so?"

Harry's lips quirked amusedly. "Well. Ironically enough, he almost killed me with a copy of _Flying Fatalities: A Collection of Quidditch Disasters_."

Looking torn as to whether he should be amused or concerned, Remus said, "Should I even ask?"

"I might have pushed him a _tad_ too far," Harry admitted sheepishly.

Remus sighed, the hint of a smile on his lips. "I'd lecture you on the dangers of tempting fate if I thought it would do any good."

Harry laughed. "What fun is life if you don't live a little?"

"I hardly call—" A knock at the door silenced his reply. "Come in."

"Sorry to bother you Remus but—oh, there you are Harry."

"What's up?"

Hermione smiled. "_They_ would like a word."

**TBC**

**A/N: So what did we think of the whole Sirius-reaching-through-the-Veil thing? It will play a bigger role as the story progresses so I'd to know what you guys think. Oh, and which Weasley do we think Harry is getting' busy with, hm? And before you flip out, it won't be a "lasting" relationship (this is, after all, a Harry/Draco story).**

**Sorry for the cliffie, by the way. But I've already got most of chapter five written (Merlin bless the weekend) so be sure to look for it in the next couple of days. Alright, well. Hope you enjoyed, lovies. Be sure to review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. This chapter was a total bitch to finish. My muse decided to take an unscheduled vacation, leaving me sitting here twiddling my thumbs for a good three or four days. Silly little hippo. Anyway. About the chapter. We get a bit of Draco's perspective in this one (Yay!) and lots of Harry/Draco interaction, too. Hmm. A touch of Ministry bashing and a rather slashy ending (Oh, my!) So read on, lovies. And don't forget to review!**

Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter Five

Rufus Scrimgeour looked as though he'd spent the better part of the morning sucking on a lemon. He sat rigidly between Dumbledore and Robards glaring murderously at the Foursome, and at Harry in particular (who smiled sweetly and waggled his fingers hello). He wasn't sure, but Harry suspected it had something to do with his tee-shirt, which read _Down with Authority_ in big, bold letters.

His inner, suspiciously Dumbledore-esque, voice _tsked_ disapprovingly at him. _What?_ he thought innocently. _It was the only clean shirt I could find._

"…demand an apology for their slanderous accusations," the Minister was saying, "which are a blatant insult to the Ministry's reputation and…"

Harry tuned out. No one quite blathered on so pointlessly like their illustrious Minister of Magic. Even Hermione appeared to be bored witless, picking at her napkin with an obvious frown. Ron, of course, had stopped listening the moment he sat down, leaning back in his chair to stare up at the ceiling. Ginny was doing origami with scraps of the morning's _Daily Prophet_, a paper Pegasus already standing proud beside her hand.

Snape stood in the corner behind a somewhat animated Draco Malfoy. _Somewhat_ in that, while he still looked very much the part of a walking corpse, he did appear freshly groomed for the first time in days. His white-blonde hair had been washed and cut, hanging loosely around his face in a surprisingly casual manner, and his nails were perfectly manicured. There was even the faintest hint of color to his otherwise sallow face and his previously tattered robes had been replaced with well-cut, and clearly expensive, trousers and button-up shirt (both of a rich, fathomless black).

As strange as it sounded, it seemed all the bouncing ferret had needed was a good session of cold hostility with his much hated adversary. A few choice words here, a few death glares there, and presto! Life had returned. Who knew glaring antagonism was such a cure-all for the living dead?

_I very much doubt it shall be that easy_, his nosy-posy of an inner voice argued.

_Yes, well. Thank you oh-so much,_ Harry replied dryly. _Apparently sarcasm is lost on you. _He paused, frowning slightly. _Why am I arguing with myself?_

"…their outrageous accusations!"

"Outrageous?" Ginny remarked in mock-surprise, folding the wing of her origami crane. "I thought our compliments were downright generous."

Scrimgeour purpled. "_Compliments_! You accused the Ministry of collaborating with You-Know-Who."

Ginny frowned thoughtfully. "If I remember correctly," she said in all innocence. "We accused _you_ of collaborating with Voldemort. I don't recall bringing the entire Ministry into this."

"And how is slandering the Minister's good name a compliment?" Robards asked coldly.

"I believe we slandered you as well," Ginny smiled.

"And it was a compliment," Harry said, "because we could have accused you of being far worse than a Death Eater snitch. Voldemort's lover, perhaps?"

Ron let out a bark of laughter and nearly toppled backwards out of his chair, Hermione's quick hand the only thing keeping him upright.

Harry sat back with a cocksure grin. He was feeling quite pleased with himself, thank you very much. Quite pleased indeed…until he heard _it_. The Sigh. The telltale sign that Dumbledore had reached the very end of his patience. _Uh-oh_,Harry thought rather nervously, sinking down into his seat. _I'm really not going to like this_.

Watery-blue eyes stared at him over the rim of half-moon spectacles, their normal twinkle of amusement replaced with something frighteningly hard. "You owe the Minister an apology, Harry," the Headmaster said, that unyielding hardness echoed in his tone. "Your accusations are crude and entirely uncalled for. The Ministry has been nothing but cooperative with our efforts and I shall not tolerate such petty, childish slander. Now, apologize," he ordered, casting a stern look at Ron and Ginny. "All of you."

Looking as though they had each swallowed the lemon Scrimgeour had spent the morning sucking on, Harry, Ron, and Ginny all muttered an apology through gritted teeth, color high in their cheeks and eyes stubbornly downcast. Hermione was giving them a strict you-brought-this-on-yourselves look, complete with reproving frown and upturned nose. They were likely in for a follow-up lecture from the former Head Girl once they were dismissed.

_Oh, happy day,_ Harry thought miserably, refusing to meet either Robard's or Scrimgeour's viciously gleeful face.

"Very good," Dumbledore said coolly, turning still-steely eyes on the Minister. "Shall we move on to more…productive discussion?"

Scrimgeour glowered at the implication clearly written in the Headmaster's expression and tone—_Quit being a silly child smarting over schoolyard grievances_—and nodded curtly.

"Excellent," Dumbledore smiled, all trace of displeasure wiped clean from his face. "Harry," he said, the familiar twinkle returned to his watery blue eyes. "Mister Malfoy. How are your lessons faring?"

Harry frowned darkly. "We've only had the one."

Dumbledore's expressions softened into something akin to sympathy. "Yes, of course. And your progress?"

"A rather impressive row, sir," he replied guilelessly. "Oh, and I wheedled him into almost killing me with a book."

"Indeed." Dumbledore's eyes sparkled amusedly, knowingly. "And you, Mister Malfoy? Did the session prove helpful in any way?"

Draco's cold silver-grey eyes flickered to Harry for the briefest of moments before falling back to his lap. He recalled the Soothing technique Harry had taught him which, loathe as he was to admit, had actually helped. He recalled also Harry's effortless use of wandless magic, his bridled control over his own magic—_And mine apparently_, Draco thought sourly, feeling Harry's soft, hesitant Soothing touch calm his riling magic. _It appears you have your uses after all, Potter…_

"It proved itself…useful," he replied snidely.

Again that small, knowing smile as Dumbledore said, "So it would seem."

Draco scowled at the Headmaster's omniscient tone, and at Harry's amused snort. _It would appear as though the joke's on me_, he thought bitterly.

"Don't take it personally, Malfoy," Harry said with a teasing grin. "He takes that tone with everyone."

"This is all very touching," Scrimgeour drawled scornfully. "But we have matters of importance to discuss."

Harry smiled to himself. _Still pissed about not getting your way, eh Minister?_ Ginny nudged him, her lips quirked amusedly as she rolled her eyes meaningfully. "You're telling me," he murmured, earning a quiet laugh in reply.

Scrimgeour shot him a dark look before continuing. "Mr. Malfoy," he said, a frightening attempt at a smile on his face. "Have you reconsidered my offer?"

The look Draco gave him was as cold and devoid of emotion as water was wet. Truly the eyes of a corpse. "No," he replied simply.

"Well," Scrimgeour frowned, an angry flush coloring his cheeks. "Perhaps—"

"I am not your spy," Draco sneered, lip curling up disgustedly. Harry felt a jolt of wild magic and quickly reached out with a Soothing touch, earning an unreadable look from the Malfoy heir. "And I'm certainly not interested in your inane attempts to deface Potter or contrive another asinine plan to defeat Voldemort," he said, flickering his eyes to Dumbledore. "I couldn't care less about your precious Light."

"My," Robards mocked cruelly. "How like your father you are."

Draco smirked, a dangerous glint in his once-lifeless eyes. "You'd do well to remember that."

Both Robards and Scrimgeour stiffened at the rather blatant threat. And rightly so. Draco was the son of the most notorious Death Eater still alive, raised to one day take his father's place as Voldemort's right hand…who knew _what_ he was capable of?

Harry sniggered at their hesitation _See Ministry_, he thought. _See Ministry cower_. "Score one for Malfoy," he smiled.

Ginny _tsked_ disappointedly, bending a petal of her origami rose. "You Ministry boys are turning out to be such a disappointment," she said. "It's like you're not even trying."

The Minister bristled, casting a fleeting look in Dumbledore's direction. But the Headmaster remained silent, trademark twinkle still firmly in place as it seemed he was as eager to hear Scrimgeour's retort as everyone else—after all, there was no slandering involved at this point; no one accusing anyone else of fraternizing with the enemy; just high tensions that needed a sure, viable outlet.

"And if it weren't for your frivolous, insolent remarks we might actually accomplish something."

"Oh, yes," Ginny replied saucily. "That's more like it. Now if only you'd pull your head out of your ass you might notice there's a bit of a conflict going on and do us all a favor and quit thinking about yourself first."

"This from a _child_ making paper dolls? Do forgive me if I choose to ignore your insipid remarks."

"Ooh, Scrimmy," she said flutteringly. "You know just what to say. I only wish you weren't such an incompetent ass clown."

Ron blurted out a laugh, once again nearly toppling backwards out of his chair. Scrimgeour's look of utter scandal was priceless. Hell, even _Snape_ was struggling to hide his amusement. Harry had to smile. Leave it to Ginny to so thoroughly insult the Minister of Magic with such sickly-sweet flippancy, her fingers never pausing as they folded a neat, origami frog.

Dumbledore's voice broke through the thickening tension. "I believe that's all for now," he said benignly, smiling in turn at Draco and the Foursome. "You may go."

* * *

They were sitting in the same third floor parlor, in the same tense, awkward silence. The solitary window was open, flapping against the pale-colored curtains and ruffling Harry's clothes as he leaned against the wall, head tilted back, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-lidded. Draco sat in the same dust-worn chair, expression cold and empty as he stared at some spot on the wall. 

They'd been like that for a good half hour, hardly so much as shifting an arm; and despite Draco being well-groomed for the first time in days, Harry was still only certain he was alive because of the rise and fall of his breathing. It had to be some sort of Malfoy trait, he decided, this ability to sit so impossibly still for so damn long. That he was sickly-thin and marble-pale with heavy circles beneath his eyes did nothing to help the matter—he still looked very much the living dead.

He still looked miserable, too. On those very rare occasions when his blank façade dropped, Harry glimpsed the overpowering grief and betrayal that was slowly consuming him…and it still broke his heart every time. Draco Malfoy was certainly not a nice person, nor a compassionate one, but no one deserved to suffer such terrible loss and helplessness. He was floundering, Harry knew. Trapped between Malfoy etiquette and human emotion. He was suppressing all those emotions Lucius most certainly considered _weak_ and _useless_, allowing them to fester within him, to poison him. He probably thought that by ignoring his emotions they would just disappear. But Harry knew better. Given enough time, and enough pressure, that emotion would erupt and likely do some very serious damage. _Like blow up my house…_

So Harry had spent the better part of that half-hour brainstorming ways to start up a conversation—the memory of his skull being very nearly crushed by a book still fresh in his mind. Not to mention the rational side of his mind screaming at him that he _should not care_! Draco was the enemy. The epitomical bane of his existence. So what if he suffered a bit? It was nothing he didn't deserve, right? He'd spent the better part of seven years making their lives as miserable as possible. It was only natural he'd finally get his comeuppance…All of which Harry ignored because, really, _no one_ deserved what Draco was going through.

He could never make excuses for the horrible way Draco had treated them, but he could understand it. Raised by a father so sickeningly prejudice and hateful, it was a wonder Draco could _feel_ at all. He'd been instilled since birth with such tosh as wizard supremacy, pureblood dominance, and mudblood segregation. But it seemed Lucius had done his job a little too well, because Draco was much too proud to ever kneel before _anyone_, let alone a half-blood psychopath. Not that he would ever support the Light—Harry knew better. The only reason Draco had turned to Dumbledore was because helping the Order was the best way to get vengeance on those who had betrayed him.

The day Draco Malfoy became a humble, S.P.E.W. supporting muggle-lover was the day Harry Potter ate his shirt.

A prickle of sharp magic along his arms drew Harry back to the present. _Someone's getting bored_, he thought, opening his eyes. Draco was scowling at the wall, his body perfectly still and rigid. "Don't look so happy to be here, Malfoy," he said dryly. "I might get the wrong idea."

Draco turned that trademark scowl on him. "Go sit on your thumb, Potter."

Harry lifted a wry eyebrow. "How can I resist you when you say such sweet things?"

Another surge of veela magic, this one causing several of the books to jerk and twitch. Harry eyed them warily, reaching out with a Soothing touch…only to stop short as the erratic magic dwindled away on its own.

Harry paused, feeling a rather silly urge to grin like a schoolgirl and declare: _That was me! I taught him that!_ Somehow he contained himself, saying only, "You've been practicing, I see."

Draco bristled defensively. "And? You're the one who's been blathering on about what a danger I am to your bloody house."

Harry blinked._ O…kay, well. I seem to have hit a nerve. Interesting_. "No need to pop a blood vessel," he said. "I was just commenting."

Draco continued to glare.

"Chock full of rainbows and sunshine, aren't you?"

Silver-grey eyes narrowed venomously. "You must have a death wish."

"Only on the weekends."

The books twitched again. Harry frowned. _Perhaps a demonstration_, he thought, shooting a glance at Draco (whose look could have frozen water). With a simple gesture and a murmured spell the books vanished with a _pop!_, leaving behind a cloud of dust. Harry smiled to himself.

"No more flying projectiles," he said.

An expression of surprise flickered ever-so briefly across Draco's face. Harry noted it, but said only, "That's what I'm here to teach you. If you're up to it."

"Is that a challenge, Potter?"

Harry grinned. "Let's start simple," he said, inwardly crowing his victory. _Seems there's life here after all_, he thought, sliding onto the desktop, legs dangling casually over the edge. "Use your veela magic."

Draco blinked. "Sorry?"

"I need a starting point," Harry explained. "I can't help you learn to channel your magic unless I know what I'm working with. So go ahead. Something basic."

The air singed with magic, cold and sharp. Harry felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as the bookcase wobbled forward a few inches and the window shook. It was an admittedly strong source of magic, but terribly unfocused.

"Good," Harry nodded. "Now do a spell with your wand."

Draco gave him a queer look but performed an effortless _lumos_. Harry felt the magic wash over him like warm water, calm and sure and very much distinct from his veela magic. _Interesting_.

"So what do you think, Doc?" Draco asked trenchantly. "Am I'm going to make it?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Harry replied.

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I'm sure you're used to it by now."

Draco scowled. He was feeling admittedly confused about this whole situation. While there was nothing new in being insulted by the ever-irritating Boy Wonder, the hint of playfulness in Harry's voice was new. _But then, Potter's been acting strange for days now_, he thought. _Almost…friendly_. It was bizarre, really, and Draco hadn't the slightest idea what was going on. There was no reason on earth for Harry to be anything but triumphant over his adversary's fall from grace. Draco knew without doubt that had their roles been reversed, he would have been beside himself with savage glee.

_But this is Harry effing Potter,_ he sneered._ The sodding Boy Who Lived. And Merlin knows nothing is ever simple with him_.

Draco knew for a fact that the only reason he was staying at Grimmauld Place (and not some Order safehouse) was because Dumbledore had hopes of him 'jumping sides' and fighting for the Light. It was why these little sessions had been scheduled between himself and Harry. The Headmaster of Hogwarts believed that if they were forced to work together they might find it that much easier to fight together. Not that Draco had any intention of standing on the front line against Voldemort. He simply wanted vengeance—of which Harry was doubtlessly aware; bringing him back to his original question. Why the hell was Harry Potter being almost friendly with him?

"…even listening to me? Yoo-hoo. Earth to Malfoy."

Draco swatted at the snapping fingers hovering in front of his face, a scowl firmly in place. "_What_?" he snapped.

Harry sat back, his lips twitching amusedly. "Just making sure you're still with me."

"And where the hell else would I be?"

"My, aren't we touchy."

Draco shot him a warning look. "Potter…"

Harry held his hands up in surrender, laughter in his voice. "No need to get your knickers in a twist," he said, cocking his head ever-so slightly to the side. "So what's on your mind?"

Draco sniffed with classic Malfoy arrogance. "Why do assume there's something on my mind?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe the fact that you zoned out on me?"

"I did not 'zone out.'"

"No, of course not. Malfoys would never do such a thing, right?"

There it was again, that hint of playfulness lacing his insults. Draco had absolutely no idea what to make of it—and that unnerved him. "Can we skip the pleasantries?"

Harry seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Sure," he nodded. "We'll jump right to the good stuff. Stand up."

"Stand up?"

"That's right. Up," he said, sliding his feet to the floor. "As in, climb to your ferret feet."

Draco frowned but did as instructed, noting as he did so that he and Harry were of a height, and standing rather too close together. He felt an odd twist in his belly and held back the sudden desire to retreat. "Now that you have me here," he drawled. "What do you propose we do?"

Harry smirked. "Close your eyes."

"Why, Potter. I never knew you cared."

"Shut up and close your eyes," Harry replied laughingly.

Draco did, albeit grudgingly, and then waited. Nearly half a minute passed before warm, dry hands gripped his wrists. He pulled back instinctively. "What—?"

Harry held firm. "Relax," he said. "It's called intuitive channeling. A way for you to experience channeling through me so you can get an idea of what you'll need to do." When Draco remained rigid, he added, "It's alright. Trust me. I promise not to assault your virtue."

There was another moment of hesitation but Draco finally relaxed again, closing his eyes.

"You have to let me do this, so don't fight it, okay?" Harry said. "This'll feel a bit…odd."

_Odd, he says. Wonderful_, Draco thought, every hair on his body standing on end as a surge of potent magic washed over him, burning through his veins like fire. He felt suddenly violated in some strange, obscure way and struggled with a sour wave of nausea. His every instinct was screaming at him and it took every last drop of willpower in his body to stay routed where he stood as Harry's magic swelled within him. It was most assuredly an odd experience, and not one Draco was particularly enjoying. It felt inexplicably _wrong_ to have another person's magic coursing through your body—like walking around in someone else's skin.

But then the course of that foreign magic shifted and calmed. Draco _felt_ what Harry was doing, understood it on some indefinable, absolute level. It may well have been the most intimate experience of his life. And when Harry finally withdrew his magic, slowly and with great care, Draco was left still feeling distinctly violated but somehow…gratified. _Odd, indeed_.

"So was it good for you?"

Draco pulled his hands away. "Crude, Potter. Very crude."

Harry simply smiled, slipping back up onto the desk. "Do you at least understand what you're trying to do now?"

Draco nodded, a frown pulling at his lips. Being in Harry's debt was hardly a promising notion. "I do."

"Good. Then maybe—" He jumped as a shock of brutal irritation ripped through him like a handful of dull razorblades, the Minister's murky visage flitting through his mind. Whatever the man had said, Ginny was _not_ happy about it.

"What is that?" Draco asked.

"What's what?"

"That…tic you have?"

Harry chuckled softly. "That's not a tic," he said. "That would be Ginny."

Draco lifted a curious eyebrow. "Are you two telepathic, now?"

Massaging his now throbbing temples, Harry said, "Not quite. Just soulmates."

"You and Weasley are…?"

Harry laughed again. "No," he assured. "Besides the fact she's like a sister, Gin really isn't my type."

"Too much red hair?"

"Too much estrogen."

Draco actually stepped back as though struck, a look of momentary shock flashing through his silver-grey eyes. That wasn't quite the answer he had expected. A knock at the door saved him from an awkward reply.

Charlie popped his head in, a curious look on his face—like he had half-expected to walk in and find them both ripped to shreds. "Mum wants you for lunch," he said.

"Great," Harry beamed, jumping to his feet. "I'm starved. After you," he said, gesturing for Draco to go ahead of him.

Harry followed, and was hauled to the side as he stepped into the hallway. He found himself shoved up against the wall as warm lips pressed urgently against his, a slick tongue brushing the roof of his mouth, tangling with his own. Harry groaned, fingers lacing through long, satin locks. A leg slipped between his thighs, rubbing hard against his erection. "Oh, god," he moaned, rocking his hips forward. "Charlie…"

Deft fingers worked the button on his jeans, lowered the zip…slipped inside to wrap around him, moving with slow, torturous strokes. Harry bit hard on his bottom lip to silence his cry of pleasure, grinding against Charlie's hand. Blunt teeth nipped at his throat; soft kisses soothing the abused flesh.

Harry had known from the start that it was a doomed arrangement. It had begun with a single night of shared loneliness and too much alcohol, and had since become a steady succession of casual trysts. It was doomed because, for Charlie, it would never be anything but casual. He wasn't looking for a relationship with Harry, and had been upfront about that from the start. Ginny fancied her older brother a _situational queer_, meaning he was adamantly straight but willing to take a shag where he could get it.

Not to suggest that Charlie was being in any way cruel or unfair. Harry had gone into it with the same idea in mind: something casual with someone he trusted and cared for. The problem was that Harry turned out to be absolute rubbish at the whole _casual_ thing. His friends would likely point out that he was too starved for love to ever keep such a relationship strictly casual. But Harry liked being with Charlie; liked the way Charlie looked at him, touched him, moaned his name. So he crushed the whisperings of emotion roiling around in his belly, pretended that, if given the chance, he _wouldn't_ fall madly in love.

Charlie's fingers dug roughly into his hips, mouth hot and desperate against his. Harry moaned deep in his throat, pulling their bodies closer, needing more of that delicious friction. He was so close, a familiar heat building in his belly. "Charlie," he gasped, his grinding becoming harsh and frantic.

Charlie bit hard on his neck as he shuddered his release, Harry's name spilling from his lips in a breathless moan. "Come," he murmured, fingers stroking Harry's length. "Come for me."

Harry felt his breath catch. "There," he hissed. "Yes…_Charlie_," he breathed, pressing a brutal kiss to his lover's mouth as his body found its sweet release.

They stood panting against each other as their hearts began to slow, littering butterfly kisses against salty skin. After a time, Charlie muttered a much needed cleansing spell, refastening Harry's jeans with practiced easy. "We should get down there before someone comes looking for us," he said.

Harry nodded, smoothing his hands down the front of Charlie's shirt, not trusting his voice to hide his warring emotions. He wasn't in love with Charlie, not even close, but he hovered on the very brink of _falling_ in love. It would be easy—Too easy, Ginny would tell him. "You don't want to give your heart to someone like Charlie," she'd say. "I love my brother, but he's not worth the heartbreak." And she'd be right…but that didn't stop Harry from thinking what-if.

"Come on," Charlie said, stealing a last, lingering kiss before disappearing around the corner.

_Oh, yes_, he smiled sadly. _How easy it would be._

A wash of emotion caught him halfway down the stairs and he very nearly stumbled to his death. Ginny was either furious with him, or horribly embarrassed…_Or possibly both_, he thought, remembering their earlier conversation. "Oh, hell," he said aloud. "Just what I need."

But as he opened the kitchen door, counting at least a dozen people (including a chattering Mrs. Weasley), he couldn't help the chuckle that slipped past his lips. Ginny had…_peaked_ in front of this crowd? He had a moment to enjoy her simmering humiliation before her blazing hazel eyes homed in on him. _Uh-oh._

**TBC**

**A/N: The whole Harry/Charlie ending just sort of snuck up on me—but since I rather like it, I kept it. I hope their relationship came across okay (let me know what you thought of it). Oh! And do I spy the first hints of friendship between Harry and Draco? Could be…**

**Now. If you're still reading this, please be so kind as to hit the 'submit review' button on your left and tell me any and all thoughts/comments/suggestions you might have. I'll love you eternally!**

**And before I totally forget: I started up my very on C2 (see my Author Page for a link) but I'm in need of staff, so if you're interested let me know! Thanks.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hope everyone had a happy holiday! Welcome back to the story. No Harry/Draco in this chapter. Sorry, lovies. We do get to see Ginny's wrath, though. (-: Lots of fun info on veela, too. So please enjoy and please review…**

Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter Six

"Sit!"

With a very unladylike shove, Ginny had him sprawling into an oversized, too-soft chair, his body folding into a distinct V shape as he sunk down uncomfortably low. The odd angle put a sharp twinge in his back, but the look in her blazing hazel eyes had him petrified with thoughts of what she might do if he so much as twitched. Ginny Weasley may not have been a walking encyclopedia of spells like Hermione, but she threw a mean bat-bogey hex, and Harry knew better than to test his luck.

A bruise purpled nicely around his wrist, curtsey of Ginny's surprisingly lethal death grip—his fingers were still tingling with pins-and-needles as circulation returned to them—and he was fairly certain his lower back would boast a matching palette of black and blue. Despite her being all of five feet and change, Ginny packed a nasty punch.

"I cannot _believe_ you did that!" she fumed, pale cheeks flushed angrily. "In front of my mother, Harry! My _mother!_ Do you have any idea of _humiliating_ that was? She pointed out to _everyone_ how flushed I looked and kept asking if I was feeling alright." She paused, a look of sudden horror on her face. "Oh, god. I think I moaned," she said miserably, shooting a frantic look in Harry's direction. "You made me moan in front of my mother! I'm going to kill you."

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Harry returned, scrambling to pull himself out of the chair currently trying to swallow him whole. "I'm sorry if I wasn't thinking about _you_ while Charlie has his hand on my—"

"Stop!" She looked at him somewhat wildly, fiery locks fanned out around her face. "I do _not_ need to know the details of my brother's sex life."

Harry's mouth quirked amusedly. Despite his own better judgment he said, "You sure? Because he does this one thing with his tongue that—"

A profusion of sudden emotion stole the air straight from his lungs. He staggered back a few steps, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut, throwing up a shield on instinct as he clutched the chair for balance.

Gasping lungfuls of air, Harry turned glaring eyes on a still-fuming Ginny. "_What the hell_?" he snapped.

"It's called a shield," she replied petulantly. "And I'd begun to think you'd forgotten how to do them."

"Fine. You're right. I'm absolute rubbish at shielding. Sue me!"

"I'd rather flay you alive, thanks."

"I said I was sorry," he pointed out, circling the chair as Ginny advanced on him with a slightly manic gleam in her still-blazing eyes.

"You didn't actually," she replied, twirling her wand between her fingers with a feral grin. "But even if you did, it wouldn't have saved you."

Harry launched himself over the coffee table, scrabbling onto and over the back of the couch, one eye on the door and the other on the furious redhead stalking closer. "But I didn't mean to!" he argued. "And, besides. You're the one who told me just a few hours ago how well shagged you felt."

Ginny's eyes widened. "A few hours ago I hadn't orgasmed in front of my mother!" Her expression crumbled. "And Dumbledore," she all but whispered. "And _Snape_. Oh, god," she groaned, leaning hard against the back of the chair. "I think I might pass out."

"Feeling better, are you?" Hermione stood in the doorway with a much too amused look on her face, a book cradled in her arms.

Ginny whirled around, the fury back in her dark hazel eyes. "Don't you start."

"Of course not." Hermione continued to smile as she strolled into the parlor, gracing Harry with a knowing look.

Ron sauntered in a few moments later gnawing on the end of a chicken wrap, a slightly bewildered expression on his face. His eyes flickered from Ginny (who stood like a furious statue in the center of the room, shifting her glare between Harry and Hermione) to Harry (who remained cowering behind the couch) to Hermione (who was folded comfortably in the chair with her nose in a book). He hadn't missed his sister's queer behavior just minutes ago and, curious though he was, judging by the mingling tensions swirling around his head, he really didn't need to know.

Tearing off another bite, Ron crossed the room to settle down on the worn-in couch, eyeing Harry warily. "Hey, mate. Whatcha doing?"

"Hiding behind the couch."

"I can see that," Ron replied. "Why?"

"Because he knows that in about two second he'll be singing soprano," Ginny answered with sweet venom.

Harry paled noticeably, crouching ever lower to the floor. Ron stretched his neck to peer over the back of the couch, chewing methodically before taking another bite. He'd been on the receiving end of Ginny's wand enough times to empathize with Harry's plight—but that didn't mean he wanted to be in the crosshairs. Glancing over at his sister, he asked, "Should I move?"

Harry's eyes bugged. "_Traitor_!" he hissed.

Ron shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, mate. But I like all my extremities right where they are."

"Ronald, sit down," Hermione said, The Tone leaving no room for argument. Her book sat closed in her lap, her expression eerily reminiscent of McGonagall. "Ginny. Put it away."

"Not until his bits are covered in boils."

"Oh, for god's sake," Hermione muttered, brandishing her own wand. "_Expelliarmus!_" She caught Ginny's wand in her free hand, tucking it in her pocket. "It was an accident," she said with exasperation, shooting Harry a warning look. "Right?"

"Right," he nodded, looking pathetically relieved as he mussed his already unmanageable hair. "And I'm sorry. Honest, Gin. I didn't mean for you to…you know."

Ginny twitched.

Tentatively, Harry reached out through their soul-bond…and hit an iron wall of conflicting emotions. She was still burning with humiliation, but at the same time felt grateful that only Hermione knew what had actually happened. There was anger, too. A fountain of anger tempered only by a grudging acceptance that Harry really hadn't done it on purpose. There was frustration at herself for not helping him with his shields sooner and frustration at him for not realizing his shortcomings sooner. There was not, however, a lingering desire to hex his bits.

_Thank Merlin for that!_ he thought, edging carefully around the side of the couch.

Ginny narrowed her eyes dangerously, and he froze. Ron's head was proving a partial shield between him and the business end of Ginny's wand—a fact of which Ron was aware and not at all comfortable with if the half-eaten wrap hovering midway to his mouth was anything to go by. There were few things capable of stealing a Weasley's hunger, and mortal fear was one of them. _Serves him right_, Harry thought, bending down and to the left, out of Ginny's aim.

A flash of irritation singed across his skin, and he flinched. She may have given up on hexing his bits, but she was still determined to hex _something_…which was not at all a promising thought. How many times did he have to apologize?

_Technically speaking,_ piped his inner voice. _You've only apologized once._

_Who asked you?_ he replied shortly. _Besides. She _knows_ I didn't do it on purpose. She's just pissed off and needing an outlet._

_And whose fault is that?_

_Don't you blame this on me! It was an accident and no one even knew what was happening so how could she have possibly humiliated herself?_ Harry paused, frowning at himself. _I really need to stop arguing with myself…_

"Look, Gin," he said, scrounging up every last bit of Gryffindor courage he had and standing up straight. "I'm sorry. You have every right to be angry and I promise to work on my shields from now on. Cross my heart," he smiled, tracing an X over his heart. "I'll only let them down when you're feeling horny."

That did it. Ginny laughed. "You're such a dolt, Potter."

Harry grinned devilishly. "A charming, handsome dolt."

"Try delusional."

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

Ginny smiled sweetly, stepping closer. "The lady doesn't need a wand to make you sing soprano."

Harry's amusement vanished and he wisely ducked back behind the couch. Ron shook his head, popping the last of the chicken wrap into his mouth. "You should really know by now not to poke the sleeping dragon, mate."

"Ginny, sit down," Hermione said with a weary sigh. "You've made your threats. Harry cowered like a schoolgirl. Everyone's happy. Can we move on now?"

"I did not 'cower like a schoolgirl.'"

Hermione gave him a look that clearly said _Who do you think you're fooling?_ before reopening the book in her lap. "Now. I've been doing a bit of research," she said. "And I've found a few books that may help us."

"Us?" Harry questioned.

"Fine. I've found a few books that may help _you_," she corrected with a touch of annoyance. "Of course, since no information exists on exhibiting male crossbreeds to begin with, you'll simply have to make due."

"Oh, goodie," Harry said with false excitement. "Research."

"Don't you start with me, Harry James Potter."

"Uh-oh," Ginny grinned, folding herself onto the floor at Ron's feet. "She used The Name. You best watch yourself, Har-Bear."

Harry cringed. "I hate it when you call me that."

"Would you rather Harry-Berry? Potter-Trotter? Har-Har the Extraordinaire?"

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," Harry muttered. "But can we get started on this research?"

Ginny chuckled, reaching over to pluck a book from the pile Hermione had just summoned. "So what have you brought us? _The Truth about Crossbreeds: Separating Fact from Fiction_," she read, lifting a wry eyebrow. "Fascinating."

Hermione clucked her tongue, her nose upturned in a classic better-than-thou manner. "Research isn't meant to be fun," she said. "It's meant to be informative."

With a raised brow, and a look that screamed _Do you really want to go here?_, Ginny replied, "Well answer me this, O wise one. How am I supposed to learn anything if these books bore the wits out of me?"

Theirs was an…odd friendship, Harry had long ago decided. As far as friends went, Hermione and Ginny were as close as any. Yet at the same time, no one quite got under Hermione's skin like Ginny. Not even Ron. Ginny knew exactly what to say to send Hermione storming from the room in a furious huff. She liked to needle Hermione, test her limits—and her own mortality, it seemed. After all, who but Hermione Granger could claim to be a walking encyclopedia of hexes? And who but Ginny Weasley would intentionally push said encyclopedia to the point of _using_ those hexes?

With an inner shrug, Harry leaned over and picked up a book. _Don't Panic! Those Wings are Natural: A Layman's Guide to Understanding Why_. Oh, yes. He could feel his brain turning to mush already. "Where did you get these, anyway?" he asked.

"Professor Dumbledore brought them."

"Of course he did," Harry muttered. _Meddling old fool_, he thought fondly. "So where do we start?"

* * *

Several hours later found them sprawled out across the room, balls of parchment, broken quills, empty inkpots, and half-eaten plates of food discarded around them.

Hermione sat curled in the same chair she had claimed earlier, fingertips ink-stained and busy scratching out notes. Ron sat at one end of the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table, munching on a sandwich as he stared blankly at the book in his lap. Ginny was stretched along the coffee table, Ron's legs lying across hers, reading the text hovering half a foot above her. Harry was folded up on the other end of the couch, cheek resting against his fist as he flipped through a decidedly boring book.

The subject in itself was actually rather fascinating, Harry thought. It was the material that was making his ears bleed. Veela were without doubt an interesting species, and after hours of painstaking research, Harry had begun to appreciate Draco's unique situation. Crossbreeds (both male and female) were not uncommon among wizards as female veela tended to be rather irresistible. In fact, Harry had learned, they possessed a certain genetic "charm" that turned men into drooling imbeciles, making them easily manipulated and easily used—not that many complained. Apparently sex with a veela was a fairly…life-altering experience.

But according to Hermione, exhibiting crossbreeds had always been female. _Always_.

Within the last century it'd been discovered that there was a glitch in the blending of certain chromosomes that made it genetically improbable for male crossbreeds to exhibit tendencies—and here is where Hermione had been somewhat mistaken because, on very rare occasions, male crossbreeds _did _exhibit…but none had ever survived the awakening of their veela magic. Why? It was thought by most that, in the same way male veela are the weaker of the two sexes, male crossbreeds are as equally unable to cope with such strength of magic.

_Except we've got our very own living, breathing, _exhibiting_ male crossbreed right here under this roof,_ Harry thought. _So much for genetic glitches and weaker sexes_.

"So why is Malfoy different?" Ginny asked, tossing her current text aside.

Hermione frowned at her, reaching over to flip the cover of her rudely discarded book shut. "I'm not entirely sure," she replied. "But I have a theory."

Ron dropped his book to the floor, stretching his arms with a grateful sigh. "By all means."

"Well." Tucking her legs under her, hands folded neatly across her book, Hermione settled into what the other referred to as her Lecture Pose. "I believe Malfoy survived the awakening of his veela magic for the same reason Harry survived the _avada kedavra_," she said. "A mother's love."

"Interesting idea," Harry admitted. "But I doubt Malfoy was the first exhibiting male crossbreed to be loved my his mother."

"And I doubt you were the first victim of the _avada kedavra_ to be loved by his mother," Hermione argued. "It's just a theory. The truth is we have no idea why you survived when thousands of others did not just as we have no idea why Malfoy survived. We may never know for certain."

Harry smiled. "Just lucky, I guess."

Ginny snorted in rather unladylike, yet strangely attractive, way, tossing a balled up sheet of parchment at Harry's head. "Too bad the rest of us weren't so lucky," she said. "We're stuck with _you_."

"Sticks and stones, chipmunk. Sticks and stones."

"How about I sticks and stones my foot right up your ass."

Harry laughed. "What does that even mean?"

Ginny shrugged in reply, spinning around on the tabletop to drop her feet to the floor, swatting a few rogue locks of hair out of her face. "I have no idea," she remarked guilelessly. "Just something to say, I guess."

Rubbing a tender crick at the base of his neck, Harry pulled a face and said, "Well couldn't you have said something that makes sense?"

"Why would I do that?"

"You're right," he nodded, taking in her honestly perplexed expression. "Silly me. So what have we learned?" he asked, glancing over at Hermione. "Is Malfoy about to sprout wings and fly away?"

She smiled. "Only pureblood veela make that transformation when angry," she said. "It's very likely he has the ability to throw fireballs, though."

"No shit?"

"You may want to watch out for that."

_Great advice_, he thought. _Watch out for the freak of nature tossing fireballs._

_That's unfair,_ replied his inner, Dumbledore-esque voice. _Surviving the avada kedavra makes you just as much a freak of nature._

_Maybe we should start a club…_

It was becoming a bit unnerving, the degree to which he and Draco mirrored each other. At Hogwarts they'd each been held up as paradigms of their Houses; looked to by others for the proper standards of behavior. They were both of them smothered by unfair expectations and blamed for shortcomings they could neither help nor change. They'd both suffered a childhood that was, for lack of a better term, unsatisfactory. They'd both lost their parents to Voldemort and both were haunted by memories that threatened to consume them.

But for each similarity they shared, there was also a difference. Draco was cold and selfish; arrogant in a way only the pureblooded could be (and wasn't that ironic?). Harry, while certainly capable of both arrogance and selfishness, was not very good at either; his compassion far outweighing his indifference. Draco judged value based solely on whether or not a person proved useful to him and dismissed those he considered less than himself. Harry, a victim himself of unfair judgment, refused to reduce others to such vain characterizations. Draco opted for the coward's way out whenever possible because it kept _him_ out of danger. Harry chose to face his challenges head-on because it kept _others_ out of danger.

And Harry wanted to hate Draco for those difference—_had_ hated him for years. But it had all been so simple back then. The lines had been so clear-cut and impossible to ignore. He was Harry Potter, Gryffindor Golden Boy and Savoir of the wizarding world; Draco was the sole Malfoy heir and infamous Slytherin Prince. They were rivals. Perfectly matched adversaries.

In school, Harry had understood his role in their relationship. He'd known what was expected of him and had performed accordingly. Draco was the enemy. He stood for everything Harry was against and was therefore worthy of contempt. They swapped insults and sneers, threw punches, and dished up heaps of humiliation. They went out of their way to make each other miserable and that had been that.

_But now…_

Now he found himself not quite as eager to hate his once beloved foe. Not quite as _able_. How do you hate someone so utterly despondent? Draco had proved himself as human as the rest of them, as able to hurt and bleed and suffer. That he was forced to suffer alone seemed impossibly cruel to Harry, who understood all too well the pain and grief of losing someone you love.

_Perhaps all he needs is a friend,_ suggested his ever-meddling inner voice.

_And somehow you think _I'm_ the perfect candidate?_ he replied incredulously. _You do realize we can't stand each other?_

_Things change._

_Not this._

"…called genetic _charm_?" Ginny asked, drawing Harry back to the present. "Don't tell me Malfoy's about to become the next Casanova."

"Heavens, no," Hermione replied, shivering at the thought of throwing herself uncontrollably at Draco Malfoy. "Only pureblooded females possess a true genetic charm," she said. "It's a unique pheromone actually. Something of a defense mechanism."

Ron frowned, dropping his feet to the floor. "Why would they need a defense mechanism? It says here that veela are pretty powerful. Magically speaking, I mean."

Hermione looked momentarily stunned that Ron had been paying attention, let alone actually _doing_ the research. "They are, but only in comparison to other magical creatures. Wizards are far more powerful if only because we have a way to channel our magic. To concentrate it and focus it specifically."

"We use wands," Ginny surmised.

"Or otherwise channel our magic through wandless means," Hermione nodded. "Channeling is actually unique to wizards and house-elves. Though house-elves are far more adept at it than we are."

"House-elves?" Ron queried incredulously, a slight curl to his lip.

Hermione sniffed contemptuously, eyes narrowed. "Yes, _Ronald_. House-elves perform magic as complex as any wizard's without the need of a focusing tool," she said. "Can _you_ perform complex spells without a wand?"

Ron colored, sinking down a bit in his seat.

"Of course you can't. And do you know why?"

"Because only the crème de la crème of wizards are powerful enough to perform wandless magic," Ginny answered, smirking at Ron (whose face burned a bright, cherry red). "Should have kept your mouth shut, big brother."

"Veela magic," Hermione continued, "is extremely powerful but relatively uncontrolled. Wild, if you will. Is that correct, Harry?"

"You have no idea," he replied, stretching his arms over his head. "Malfoy's veela magic could probably demolish Grimmauld Place without him breaking a sweat but I'd bet all the money in Gringotts it couldn't perform a simple _lumos_. At least not yet," he added with a cocksure smile.

Hermione sat forward. "Then you do believe he's capable of channeling his veela magic?"

Harry nodded, folding his knees to his chest. "Without a doubt. It's strong," he said. "Damn strong. But it's not the dominant magic. If he can learn to channel his wizard magic, then he'll be able to use it to channel his veela magic."

"Interesting," Hermione mused.

"Yeah, fascinating," Ginny mumbled, her irony slithering along Harry's spine like a thousand tiny spider legs. "I do have a question, though," she said. "Why does Malfoy glow?"

"It's a warning signal," Hermione replied. "Like when a rattle snake rattles its tail if you get too close."

"So a glowing ferret means back away slowly?"

Hermione smiled. "Something like that."

Ginny opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by the deafening clangor of every clock in the house chiming simultaneously, followed inevitably by Mrs. Black's vile shrieking and the sounds of a frantic attempt to shut her up. _5:17 already?_ Harry thought.

"Time for supper," Ron said, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm starved."

The others stared at him—at the crumbs still clinging to his chin from the sandwich he'd just finished. No one had an appetite quite like Ron Weasley.

"What?" he asked, pulling open the door. "You guys coming or what?"

**TBC**

**A/N: What do you think of my interpretation of veela? I'm trying to take the veela concept in a non-cliché direction (although I'm bound to have a cliché or two in here somewhere). Lots of Harry/Draco in the next chapter (I think). Please review and let me know your thoughts!**

**Also. I'll be in Denver all of next month and I'm not sure what sort of access I'll have to the internet so updates may not happen as frequently. I promise to update as often as possible, though—and I'll try and update again before I leave in a week.**

**And lastly…I'm still looking for staff for my C2 if anyone is interested (please email me or send a PM). Thanks to Murgy31 and shogi for joining the team! (-:**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: As promised, lovies: a final chapter before I leave for Denver in a few days. It's a bit shorter than the rest but I wanted to give you something just in case I don't have the opportunity to update while I'm away. But I think you'll forgive me for the relative shortness when I tell you it's an **_**entire**_** chapter of Harry/Draco interaction. That's right. Lots of snarky fun and a few interesting epiphanies as well. Hope you enjoy!**

Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter Seven

Crookshanks prowled the windowsill with slow, determined steps, shabby tail flicking back and forth, his yellow eyes following the house sparrows hopping around the backyard. Harry rested his cheek against his fist with a long sigh and wondered what was wrong with him that he actually found this enthralling. _It's just a cat stalking birds_, he thought. _So why can't I turn away?_

It was a quarter past ten and he'd been sitting there for a good half hour, captivated by the sight of Crookshanks' pacing steps. Hermione had dragged Ron off earlier that morning to continue researching while Harry had schlepped off to another sit down with Dumbledore. Ginny, last he checked, was still sound asleep.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place was unusually quiet. The Aurors and Ministry officials had all returned to work, as had Bill and Charlie (the former to Gringotts and the latter to Romania). Dumbledore and Snape had gone back to Hogwarts and Mrs. Weasley was off shopping in Diagon Alley.

Harry had cloistered himself in his room with the honest intention of practicing his shielding—hauling Crookshanks inside as well to keep him out of Kreacher's way while the house-elf went about his morning routine—and _had_ practiced for a good five minutes before the sight of a prowling half-kneazle stole his attention. What? It was hardly his fault he had the attention span of a first-grader. He blamed it all on genetics (apparently his father had had an equally deficient attention span).

Crookshanks hissed and scratched at the glass, tail flicking. Harry sighed again, standing. Under the cat's watchful eye, he crossed the room and pushed open the window. Crookshanks mewed gratefully and leapt out onto the overhang. Who was he to deny him the right to romp around the backyard chasing birds?

A cool, late-morning breeze wafted in, carrying the scent of damp earth, fresh blossoms, and sweet oak. The smell of summer. The sky was a crisp, powder blue dotted with full, white clouds. Birds trilled from somewhere overhead and the sounds of laughter filtered in through the wards surrounding Grimmauld Place. It was a perfect day and Harry was damned if he was going to spend it cooped up inside.

Stripping off his sleepwear he rummaged through his drawers, pulling on a pair of cut-offs and an old Kinks tee-shirt. He left his room on bare feet, ruffling his mop of unruly hair. The house was quiet as he padded down the hall, descending the stairs and slipping out the back door with nary a sound.

The sun was warm against his skin as he stepped outside. The yard was still in relative shambles—flowers and shrubs choked by vampiric vines and littered with years of death and debris—but after weeks of hard work it was beginning to reveal its original symmetry and beauty. Harry felt a certain sense of pride that he was able to coax life back into this garden-cum-graveyard.

He breathed in the cool, sweet air and set off along the winding stone pathway, fingers brushing the tips of leaves and petals. He felt Ginny stirring awake and smiled to himself at her flush of irritation. She really wasn't much of a morning person.

Stepping around a wide hedgerow, he froze.

Draco was sitting cross-legged on one of the twin benches (a strangely unguarded pose for the so-named Ice Prince). He was dressed in sand-colored drawstring slacks and a white button-down, his white-blond hair loose and tussled by the breeze—a casual and altogether uncharacteristic look that Harry found oddly appealing. It made him look distinctly human rather than a front of cold Malfoy etiquette.

Harry stood still, not wanting to disturb Draco's solitude.

_Not wanting to disturb this perfect moment,_ whispered softly in his ear. He ignored it, hoping to back away without being noticed. But as if sensing his presence, Draco stiffened and looked up, his face becoming eerily blank.

"Potter," he said, his voice hollow and dead.

"I didn't mean to bother you."

A faint sneer curled Draco's lip. "You've always bothered me."

Harry felt again that misplaced sense of elation at having evoked emotion from this walking corpse of a boy, and again pushed it aside with an effortless shrug. "Someone has to keep you on your toes," he replied.

"What do you want?"

_What do I want?_ Harry repeated to himself. _I want you to stop traipsing around like a damn zombie. I want you to spit insults and curses. I want you to sneer and scowl and look down your nose at me. God knows why, but I want you to want to live, you wanker._ But all he said was, "Just wanted some fresh air."

Draco stared at him with an expression so utterly devoid of emotion it was frightening. Harry had to make a conscious effort not to recoil. _Screw 'corpse'_, he thought. _Corpses show more emotion than that._

A part of him wanted nothing more than to tuck tail and run, to escape the palpable wash of miserly emanating from his once-adversary. It was none of his concern if what Draco wanted was to wither away in grief, to surrender to the pain and betrayal knifing his heart. But another part of him struggled with an overwhelming urge to commiserate with this lost soul, to take him by the shoulders and make him see that he wasn't the only one to have suffered such a loss.

Torn between two very different extremes (and two very different emotions), he settled for something of a middle ground and approached the opposite bench with cautious steps. It wasn't beneath Draco to hex him without provocation. _Although at this point in the game_, Harry thought wryly. _I'd be lucky to get a frown_.

It was all still so unfamiliar to him, this conflict of emotions tangoing in his belly. Draco Malfoy was public enemy number one. He'd been intermittently feared, respected, admired, and loathed by those who had once surrounded him. His presence alone had been enough to demand attention; his every word and action conveying undeniable confidence and arrogance. And it had been so easy to despise him for the way he lorded over everyone, judged them solely on superficial terms and their degree of usefulness.

But now?

_Now_ there was nothing here to fear or admire or hate. Nothing at all but a lost soul floundering about in a sea of alien emotion with no one in the world to help or care. _No one but me,_ he thought. _And isn't that ironic as hell?_

"Potter?"

Harry blinked, that contemptuous drawl sliding over his skin like silk. _Why do I seem to be the only one he reacts to?_ It made no sense except…

_It makes perfect sense_, replied the ever-haughty voice in his head. _You two have always had an explosive reaction to one another._

Well, _that_ was true but—

"Potter!"

"_What!_"

Draco lifted a mocking eyebrow and despite himself, Harry felt his cheeks flush. "Am I interrupting something?"

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "No," he said. "I was just thinking."

"You don't say?"

"Oh, shut up."

Draco pressed a theatrically hand to his heart, a wry expression on his face. "Ouch."

Harry felt his lips twitch amusedly. This was all very odd. Here they were, Howarts' most infamous rivals, sitting an arms length from each other trading good-natured gibes like they were old friends. Harry was understandably baffled by the sudden shift. One minute Draco was looking at him with the eyes of a corpse, and the next he was teasing him with that classic Malfoy drawl.

_What's happening here?_ he thought.

_I believe it's called friendship_, came the dry response.

_Who asked you?_

Draco wasn't sure what was going on himself but he felt—_dare I say it?_—_comfortable _with Harry; which really wasn't all that strange if he thought about it. Harry had always played a pivotal role in his life, had always been a keystone upon which he based so many of his actions. But wasn't that the purpose of an adversary? To _give you_ purpose? A reason to push yourself, to test your own limits and limitations? For all that he couldn't stand him, Draco was forced to admit that Harry did have his uses.

But that still didn't explain why they were suddenly, what? Getting along? Draco shuddered at the thought. _I do not 'get along' with Harry bloody Potter_, he scowled.

"…a pink hippogriff?"

With a frown, Draco pulled his attention back to the present. "Pardon?"

Harry was grinning at him in that annoying Gryffindor fashion. "Oh, nothing," he said. "Deep thoughts?"

Draco sneered. "Naturally. So if you don't mind…?"

Curiously, Harry's grin seemed to falter at this—though Draco hadn't the faintest idea why—but he recovered himself quickly and stood. "Right, um…"

Draco noted his hesitation with another mocking arch of his brow. "Was there something you needed?"

Harry shook his head, feeling every inch the idiot he looked. _What is wrong with me? I'm acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. In front of Malfoy!_

_Schoolgirl with a crush?_

Harry scowled. _Don't you start with me!_

He wasn't sure why Draco's dismissal bothered him so much. It really shouldn't have surprised him. Had they not spent seven memorable years as bitter rivals? They certainly shouldn't _like_ spending time with one another and yet…

For whatever inconceivable reason Harry found himself wanting to help Draco. Wanting to show him that he didn't need to suffer alone. A sympathetic touch from Ginny conveyed to him that, no matter what, she was on his side—"Through hell and high water," she'd say—and knowing that helped to bolster his wavering Gryffindor courage.

"I was thinking…" he began with moderate hesitation.

"I'll be sure to alert the press," Draco replied.

The dry sarcasm worked to re-stitch Harry's shattering resolve. _Snarky bastard_, he thought, refusing to look in anyway weak before Draco Malfoy. "I was thinking we might start our lessons," he said. "In earnest."

Draco stared at him with those cold, empty, silver-grey eyes. "Were you now?"

Harry bit hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming out his frustration. _Bloody hell! Teaching a Dementor to waltz would be easier than this!_ "Cut the shit, Malfoy. We both know you made a deal with Dumbledore" he said. "So unless you fancy a stint in Azkaban I suggest you at least pretend to be cooperating here."

Draco bristled, a familiar spark behind his eyes. "And what if I do? What business is it of yours if I choose to rot away in a cold cell?"

"It won't happen."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Because I won't let it!"

It was Draco's turn to hesitate. The vehemence of Harry's words unsettled him. Here was the seldom seen "savior" persona; the mighty "hero complex" he was so famous for. Draco had never before had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of Harry's righteous determination, and he was forced to admit that it was rather intimidating. And curiously flattering. To have someone so morally furious on his behalf was actually rather…nice.

Not that he'd ever confess to it. "Please don't tell me you care," he said with a disdainful curl of his lip.

Harry looked at him as though he'd suddenly sprouted a second head. "Of course I care. They want to ship you off to Azkaban," he replied. "_Azkaban_. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

Draco laughed hollowly. "What? Precious Potter is about to tell me he knows what it's like to be locked up in Azkaban?"

Harry looked away, assaulted by a sudden image of Sirius as he appeared that night in the Shrieking Shack: filthy, half-starved, a film of madness clouding his eyes. He'd never seen his godfather without that haunted look in his eyes. _God,_ he thought. _We weren't given nearly enough time…_

His heart aching, Harry forced himself to meet his adversary's gaze. "You'd be surprised."

"Yes," Draco breathed, the naked vulnerability in those emerald-green eyes stirring up an unfamiliar mix of emotion. "I believe I would be."

Ginny reached out a soothing touch, sensing his quickening anguish. Sirius had always been a sore spot for him. Would always _be_ a sore spot. How could he not be? Swallowing the rush of memories and emotion, Harry drew in a slow, calming breath. He was not going to do this here. Not in front of Draco Malfoy of all people.

"So do you want to start these lessons or not?" he asked.

"Alright, Potter." Unfolding himself from his cross-legged position, Draco stood, brushing non-existent particles of dirt from this clothing. "Where do we begin?"

* * *

A flash of red light. A soft _crack_! The white hydrangea bush quivered, a pitiful curl of smoke rising from a single bud before extinguishing in the cool breeze.

Draco sighed in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Damnit, Potter. You have to _mean it_."

Harry whirled around, an angry flush coloring his cheeks. "I don't want to mean it!"

"Well, if you want to survive this ridiculous war you had better learn to mean it."

"I—" Harry stopped, dropping his eyes to the still-flourishing hydrangea, twisting a pale-green leaf between his fingers. It was silly, really. Here he was, supposedly one of the most power wizards alive, and he couldn't even set a bush on fire. _What's wrong with this picture?_ "I don't know if I can," he admitted, gently pruning the dead leaves with careful fingers.

Draco sighed again, patiently this time, and sat down on the nearest bench. "Look. I know this is hard for you," he said. "What with that absurd Gryffindor conscience of yours. But if you don't learn to the take the offensive you _will_ get yourself killed."

Harry looked at him with an amused twitch of his lips. "Why, Malfoy. I never knew you cared."

"I don't," he sneered. "But if you end up dead because you're too pansy-assed to throw a decent curse, Dumbledore will have my head."

"Not to mention every other member of the Order and half the wizarding world."

"So you can see my motivation here. I'd rather not end up cursed by those mudblood friends of yours."

Harry bristled, eyes flashing dangerously as the hydrangea suddenly burst into flames. "Don't you _ever_ use that word."

Draco lifted a patronizing eyebrow, extinguishing the fire with a flick of his wand. "Now that's more like it," he smirked.

Harry blinked, a frown tugging at his mouth. "You…you tricked me!"

"Of course I tricked you. Slytherin, remember?" he said with all the condescending swagger of an aristocrat. "How else did you expect me to get past that bloody conscience of yours? Hand holding and gentle encouragement?"

_He has a point_, remarked his ever-present inner voice. _You do tend to need a good shove to get going._

Harry scowled. _Oh, shut up._

"Fine. I see your point," he said, glaring into those still-amused silver-grey eyes. "But don't you ever use that word in front of me again."

Draco looked entirely unimpressed but nodded all the same, a slight curl to his lips. "Deal."

Harry flinched, a look of equal parts bafflement and disbelief crumbling his features. _There's no way it's that easy_. "Really?"

"Merlin's honor."

"Yeah, well. Strangely enough I don't believe you."

"I'm not surprised."

"Can you really—" His scar suddenly exploded with pain, driving him hard to his knees…

_Lord Voldemort was pleased. _

_He sat in a narrow, high-backed chair stroking Nagini's head. The room was dim and warm and smelled faintly of burning flesh, stale wax, and something else. Something sweetly metallic and cloying. Something like blood. The rugs were worn and faded from decades of disuse, the wallpaper dried and peeling. A water stain spread across half the ceiling, bits of plaster rotted away._

_A dozen robed figures kneeled before their lord and master, faces concealed behind their black hoods. A single figure stood out among them: short and stout and cowering at Lord Voldemort's side, his right hand made of silver._

"_Wormtail!"_

_The figure scurried forward, pressing his forehead to the floor at Voldemort's feet. "Ye—yes, master?" _

_Nagini hissed at him and Wormtail shrank back with a squeak._

_Voldemort narrowed his scarlet eyes. "You have done well, Wormtail."_

"_Thank you, master."_

"_Such loyalty must be rewarded," Voldemort hissed, lifting his arm. "Crucio!"_

_Wormtail screamed. A blood-curdling sound that echoed off the walls as he writhed in agony on the floor. The other figures remained motionless and unmoved by his torture, heads turned to witness his reward._

"_Malfoy!"_

_One figure rose and broke away from the others, stepping over Wormtail's twitching form to kneel before Lord Voldemort. "My lord?"_

"_Tell me, Lucius," he rasped. "How is your son?"_

_Malfoy stiffened, drew in a sharp breath. "My son is no more," he drawled. "Draco has proved himself a blood-traitor and so I have wiped my hands of him."_

_Voldemort raised his wand. "That has yet to be seen," he said. "Crucio!"_

_And as Malfoy collapsed in a heap of twisting limbs and tortured screams, Voldemort returned his attention to Wormtail. "Tonight," he hissed. "Bring them to me tonight."_

"_Of course, master."_

_Voldmort laughed, cold and hollow. "Bring me his family, and Harry Potter will come to me."_

"…hear me? Come on, Har-Bear. Wake up."

Harry stirred. Warm, gentle fingers smoothed the hair from his face; a familiar scent of flowers wafting past his nose. Ginny was soothing his raging emotions with soft strokes of their soul-bond, calming his pounding heart. He fluttered his eyes open slowly, carefully. He was lying at the base of a white hydrangea, his head pillowed in Ginny's lap. Ron and Hermione hovered over her shoulder looking frantic and worried. Draco stood several feet away, his expression hard and unreadable.

Ginny smiled sweetly, running her finger down the bridge of his nose. "Hey there."

"Alright, mate?" Ron asked somewhat anxiously.

"Oh, yeah," he groaned, pushing himself up. "Just a few _crucio_s. You should try it sometime."

Hermione knelt down beside him, touching his hand. "Tell us what happened."

Harry froze, eyes wide as his muddled thoughts started to clear. "Oh, god," he murmured. "The Dursleys. Voldemort's going after the Dursleys."

**TBC**

**A/N: Okay, yes. I am a terrible person for leaving you with a cliffie when I might not be able to update for a while but, well, I couldn't help it! I swear! It was this or no update at all and I opted for the cliffie. Sorry folks. However I fully intend to TRY and update as quickly as possible. It all depends on how much time I have to write while I'm away. In the meantime, please review! I really want to know what you thought of this chapter and Harry and Draco's budding relationship in particular. Thanks!!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Oh, it's good to be back. I apologize for not updating before this but I was just so busy in Denver—I barely had time to sleep! But I'm updating now and that's all that matters, right? I'll warn you upfront that this chapter has quite a few loose ends and reads a bit, erm…clumsy, I guess. I tried a million different ways but just couldn't get this chapter to flow as smoothly as the others. Oh, well.**

**Anyway, about the chapter: (1) no real Harry/Draco interaction (next chapter, with lost more veela goodness!); (2) copious amounts of Dursley bashing; (3) introduction to an interesting quirk regarding Harry's visions (which will be further explained in later chapters); (4) a confrontation with Death Eaters (dun dun dun!).**

**I believe that covers everything. Please read and enjoy and don't forget to review!!**

Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter Eight

Harry could feel Ginny's desperate touch through their soul-bond as she struggled to force some semblance of calm over him. She was sitting stiffly between Hermione and Draco, emitting near-palpable waves of frustration as Harry continued to push away her calming advances. He didn't _want_ to be calm right now. He wanted to be furious.

Ginny made a soft sound of impatience, shoving another surge of calm at him as if to say _You may not want to but you had damn well better calm down if you know what's good for you!_ Harry glared at her.

"Honestly, Harry. Would you please sit down," Hermione said.

"Yeah, mate. You're kind of making me dizzy," Ron remarked.

Ginny scrounged up every bit of strength she had and sent a final punch of emotion at him. Harry staggered mid-step, his anger wavering under the sudden calming weight. "Damnit, Ginny! That's enough," he snapped.

Ginny lifted a challenging eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. "Don't count on it, Potter," she replied. "I can do this for hours."

Harry opened his mouth to make some biting remark but thought better of it when both Ginny _and_ Hermione narrowed their eyes warningly. Had it been just one or the other he might have been able to hold his ground, but against the pair of them he didn't stand a chance. He'd walked this road before with devastating results (namely him being subjected to hours of mind-numbing lecture beneath the weight of The Look). It really wasn't fair at all.

He had every right to be thoroughly and righteously pissed-off. He certainly didn't _like_ the Dursleys—and, honestly, who could blame him?—but that didn't mean he wanted to see them tortured at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Having been a victim of said torture himself, Harry wouldn't wish that fate on his worst enemy. Well. Maybe his _worst_ enemy…

_Nonsense,_ piped his pesky inner-Dumbledore. _You'd never wish such punishment on anyone. Not even your ignorant, incompetent, small-minded muggle relatives._

Harry blinked. _Wow,_ he thought. _I can't believe I'm about to say this, but you actually said something I agree with._

_Yes, well. Had you been born a more sensible individual you'd recognize that everything I say has merit and therefore you should always agree with me._

_Why is it you're always insulting me?_ Harry asked. _You're _my_ inner voice. You're supposed to be saying nice things about me._

_Then perhaps _you_ consider yourself an idiot as well._

_I do not!_

_Then how am I able to insult you? As _your_ inner voice I cannot, by definition, say things you do not already believe._

Harry paused. That actually made sense. But then…_I am not an idiot!_

_I never said you were_, came the irritatingly serene reply. _Just that perhaps _you_ think you are._

_You know what? I'm through arguing with you. I quit._

_Why am I not surprised?_

"…listening to me, Harry?"

Harry frowned, recalling himself to the present. Why did that damn inner voice of his always have to have the last word? It was beyond infuriating. "What was that Hermione?"

"I said Professor Dumbledore should be back with the Order any minute, so if there's anything you want to tell us…?"

"Oh. Uh." Hermione had that look on her face, the one that said she knew he was keeping something from them and expected him to come clean. Harry fidgeted a bit. "Well—"

"Wait a second," Ron interrupted. "Why is he still here?" he asked, jabbing a finger at Draco.

Draco scowled. "I'd be more than happy to leave, Weasley."

"No." Harry grabbed Draco by the wrist, effectively forcing him to keep his seat. "He stays."

"What?"

"He's as much a target of Voldemort and his goons as the rest of us," Harry replied. "And he has as much right to be here as you do."

To be honest, Harry wasn't entirely sure himself why he wanted Draco to stay. He could take the logical (an easy) way out and claim it had everything to do with his impossibly altruistic personality, his so-called "hero complex"—that pesky itch to dive headlong into the fray without even a cursory thought as to the consequences. He could claim it was beyond his basic nature to turn away a lost soul in need. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he had actually _enjoyed_ spending time with Draco; _enjoyed_ their witty, sarcastic banter. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he saw potential in Draco, a glimpse of the living, breathing human being that lurked beneath his icy Malfoy exterior. No, it was definitely the hero-complex.

"So are you going to come clean?" Hermione asked. "Or do I need to start guessing?"

_Crap_. Harry cleared his throat, fidgeted a bit more. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair and offered a guilty smile. "Actually…"

Hermione sighed, a sound conveying equal parts disappointment and annoyance. "This wasn't the first, was it?"

Harry ducked his head. "Well…no."

"_What_?" Ginny shot straight up in her chair, a look of utter shock plastered across her face. "That's not possible," she said. "If you'd had a vision I would have known about it."

"I've been shielding them," Harry replied.

"Shielding them?" Hermione repeated. "How is that possible? You can't shield something you don't know is coming."

"But that's the thing," Harry said. "I _do_ know they're coming. I've been getting this, this feeling before they hit me."

Hermione leaned forward, a concerned frown tugging at her mouth. "What sort of feeling?"

Harry shrugged. "Sort of like a needle being jammed through my brain, I guess. Or sometimes this weird pinching in my eye."

"And how long has this been happening?"

"A few months, maybe."

"And how often do the visions occur?"

"One or two a month."

"And why haven't you told us?"

"Because I didn't want to worry you."

Hermione sighed again. "Harry, this is exactly the sort of thing you need to tell us," she said. "What if this had been another of Voldemort's tricks? He's as aware of this connection as you are and he wouldn't hesitate for a second to use it against you. What if you had woken up one morning completely brain-dead?"

Harry smiled. "Stop being so dramatic, Hermione. As you can see I'm not brain-dead and this isn't one of Voldy's tricks."

"How do you know that?" Ginny asked. "How do you know he's not just working out the kinks of some new torture method?"

"I don't know," Harry replied. "I just do. Whatever this is it isn't Voldemort. Maybe it's some obscure form of Occulmency."

Hermione perked up at that. "That may not be so farfetched an idea. I'll need to do some research to be certain, of course, but you may be on to something."

Ginny snickered. "By George I think she's got it!"

Hermione glared, turning her attention back to Harry. "I do have a question though," she said. "Not to be insulting here but…you're rubbish at shields."

"Oh sure," Harry replied dryly. "Not insulting at all."

"She has a point," Ron agreed.

"Gee thanks, Ron. Glad to know I can count on you."

Ron offered a cheeky grin. "Anytime, mate."

Ginny reached out a soothing touch through their soul-bond, touching Harry's knee with a gentle hand. "It's a fair question," she said. "You've said yourself that you're absolute rubbish at shielding. You can't even put a cork in your anger half the time. How in the world did you manage to shield your _visions_?"

_Good questions_, Harry thought. "I wish I could tell you. I really do. But I have no idea how I do it. I just…do."

"So what happened this afternoon?" Hermione asked.

"Who knows?" Harry shrugged. "Maybe Snape's right and I really am hopeless at Occlumency."

"Now you know that's not true…"

Draco watched the interaction between Harry and his friends with an odd mix of interest and confusion. He had no idea what they were talking about—_Visions? And what the hell does Voldemort have to do with it?_—but he was nonetheless intrigued. And not just about the conversation.

Harry had surprised him by including him, by putting himself between his friends and his adversary. And to his utter mortification Draco was actually…_moved_. The very word made him want to cringe. Simpering first-year Hufflepuffs with perfect braids and perfect dimples were _moved_. Little nancy boys still clutching their mother's skirts were _moved_. A Malfoy was certainly never _moved_. Such silly, pointless emotion was an unallowable weakness—and Lucius had never been shy when it came to ripping such emotions out of his only son.

So why now? Why be moved by Harry Potter of all people? It had to be the grief, he decided. A string of sleepless nights and little-to-no food was certain to cause devastating results for anyone—and for him it just happened to be a random surge of pointless emotion. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he had _enjoyed_ Harry's company; _enjoyed_ their sarcastic banter. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he'd glimpsed the real Harry—the living, breathing human being smothered beneath that irritating hero-complex. No, it was definitely the grief.

"I get visions of Voldemort."

Draco blinked, looked up. Harry was sitting beside him, eyes closed, chair tipped back on its legs. The others had wandered off to talk with Dumbledore and the Minister—_And when the hell had they come in?_—leaving them alone. "What?"

Harry opened his eyes, those piercing green eyes eliciting a strange twist in Draco's belly. "Because of this," he said, touching his scar, "I have a connection to Voldemort."

Draco frowned. _Why is he telling me this?_ "I don't understand."

"You looked confused," Harry shrugged. "I thought I'd clear the air."

Feeling no less confused Draco asked, "Why?"

Harry's lips twitched amusedly. "Why not?"

"We need you over here, Mr. Potter."

"Got to go." Harry stood, that discreet smile still on his face. "Duty calls."

"Mr. Potter!"

"Keep a lid on it, Scrimy. I'm coming," Harry called back.

* * *

The plan was simple enough (or so Scrimgeour insisted). A quick in and out retrieval mission. No muss. No fuss. Of course, the Minister was an idiot. Despite his best efforts—and against his better judgment—Harry had tried to explain the Dursleys' obsessive hatred of all things magical…and was naturally ignored. "We are saving their lives," Scrimgeour had argued with a sour expression. "I hardly doubt they will turn us away, Mr. Potter."

Harry knew better, of course. The Dursleys would _not _come quietly—especially when the orders came from the mouth of their wizard of a nephew. But apparently a prerequisite for work at the Ministry was the uncanny ability to dismiss common reason. Harry was overruled and generally ignored for the rest of the morning while the others formulated their plan. He'd almost forgotten how much fun it was to sit in on one of these meetings, the de facto symbol of the Order of the Phoenix, and be given absolutely no respect whatsoever (from the Ministry officials, at any rate). It made a person all warm and fuzzy with confidence.

"Would you stop sulking, already?" Ginny frowned, pulling her fiery hair into a ponytail. "You're starting to bum me out."

Harry looked up from tying his shoes, an irritated look on his face. "Forgive me for thinking this is a horrible idea," he replied snidely. "I am the last person in the world the Dursleys want to see." _And they're the last people I want to see,_ he added to himself.

Ginny sensed his thoughts and softened a bit. "We all know this is hard for you," she said, lacing up her boots. "But do you honestly think they'd respond any better to some wand-wielding stranger showing up at their doorstep and demanding they leave?"

The image of Vernon Dursley turning several shades of purple as he spluttered his outrage brought a fleeting smile to Harry's face. But the image was quickly washed away by memories of hateful words and long nights spent locked up and starving in his tiny cupboard under the stairs. He hated how Vernon could still make him feel like an inadequate child (even after months of being away from that oppressive household). He hated that Vernon still had this hold over him, this invisible hand still wrapped around his throat. He hated that the mere mention of Vernon's name still evoked a cold fear in his belly. Harry wanted nothing more than to be rid of his family and their enduring control over him.

Some might say it was silly of him to fear a man who could never _really_ hurt him. Harry was a wizard, wasn't he? What need had he to fear a mere muggle? But years of verbal and psychological abuse had taken their toll. He had spent most his life being insulted and belittled, told every day how worthless and pathetic he was—and he had the emotional scars to prove it. For all his stubborn defiance of them, Harry had always harbored a tiny voice at the back of his mind; a voice that whispered, _Maybe they're right. Maybe I am just a freak._

Hermione placed a comforting hand on his arm, brushing a few locks of unruly hair away from his eyes. "You know you're not," she said with a knowing look. "You can't let them keep pushing you down, Harry. They can't hurt you anymore."

"And if they try we'll just turn them into toads," Ron remarked with a puckish grin.

"And feed them to Pig," Ginny added, tugging at the cuff of her fishnet sleeve.

Harry smiled. "That might just be the sweetest thing I've ever heard."

Ginny flung an arm over his shoulder, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Never say we don't know how to treat you right."

"Okay, people!" Kingsley Shacklebolt clapped his hands together to draw everyone's attention. At Gawain Robards request, he had assembled a small team of Aurors for the mission at hand. He and Tonks would accompany the Foursome inside Number 4 Privet Drive to collect the Dursleys while Savage, Dawlish, Williamson and Proudfoot set up a perimeter around the house. If all went as planned the Dursleys would be tucked safely in their rooms at Grimmauld Place long before Pettigrew arrived to fetch them. "Let's pair up and head out!"

Harry sidled up to Hermione while Ginny tucked her arm firmly through Ron's. They would apparate in pairs—just in case. "He we go," he murmured, an anxious twist in his belly as a familiar sense of wooziness overcame him. _I hate apparating_…

* * *

The late morning sun was nearly at its peak, surrounded by a cloudless blue sky. Rays of pale sunlight bathed the street in warmth; wisps of sweet summer air rustled the trees and grass. Harry stumbled at bit, catching himself on Hermione's arm. _I _really_ hate apparating_.

Number 4 Privet Drive looked how it had always looked: neat, tidy, perfectly square and perfectly normal. Boring, really. The flower bed and hydrangea bushes were wilting, clearly in need of a green thumb—_And not a single person in that house has one, _Harry thought somewhat bitterly. The gardens had always been his responsibility. The lawn was impeccable and the house itself looked freshly painted.

Harry eyed the stone pathway with building resentment. He remembered laying each and every one of those stones because, according to Uncle Vernon, an immaculate lawn was _not_ to be walked on. _My ass,_ Harry frowned, taking a deliberate step onto that flawless green lawn. It felt good. _Really_ good. Those crisp, dewy blades of grass bending and snapping beneath his booted feet.

"Only you would feel this gleeful and defiant for walking across a yard," Ginny said behind him.

Harry looked back at her, ignoring the curious stares of Kingsley and his Aurors. "Try spending seventeen years being shoved off this walkway by you bully of a cousin and then slapped around for every blade of grass of you bent. You'd be defiant too," he said.

Kingsley bristled, a dark look shadowing his handsome face. "They struck you?"

"On good days that's all they did," Harry replied, remembering days spent hungry and locked in the cupboard. "Remind me to show you my old room," he said dryly. "It's a quaint little space under the stairs."

Tonks made a quiet sound at the back of her throat and looked suddenly torn between wrapping Harry up in her arms and hexing the Dursleys to within an inch of their lives. Harry shrugged, offering a bland smile as if to say, _Yes, it sucks, but it's over and done with so let's just move on_. Tonks settled for setting a comforting hand on his shoulder and ruffling his hair with a wink (and Harry loved her for it).

"The perimeter is secure, sir," Proudfoot reported.

Kingsley nodded, a frown marring his features as he turned away from Harry. "Set up your positions, then. We shouldn't be more than a half hour."

"Very good, sir."

Proudfoot, Dawlish, Williamson and Savage vanished with an effortless disillusionment charm. Kingsley and Tonks drew their wands. "Let's move."

Harry felt sweet, absurd elation as all six of them tromped across the yard. It was a small, petty victory…but a victory nonetheless.

And then the front door flew open, and there stood Vernon Dursley red-faced and swollen with anger. "Damn fools!" he bellowed. "There's a reason we have a—" His face pinched with a look of utter disgust. "It's you," he sneered, beady eyes staring hard at Harry. "You're no longer welcome here, freak."

Ginny soothed Harry's building anger with a gentle stroke of their soul-bond, her hand warm against his arm. "Easy," she whispered. "Ignorant muggle, remember?"

Harry smiled at that. _Ignorant, indeed_. Walking forward, enjoying Vernon's clear displeasure at having his lawn "defiled," he said, "Hello, Uncle Vernon. Sorry to interrupt your lunch but I'm afraid you'll need to come with us."

Vernon stiffened. He may have been an ignorant, bull-headed muggle but he wasn't an idiot, not when it came to threats against his family. He had witnessed enough acts of magic to understand its danger—especially when Harry was involved. "What's happened?"

Harry stepped past his uncle into the house. Petunia rose to her feet as he stepped into the living room, a look of wavering distaste and worry on her face as she clutched the morning paper to her chest. "You need to pack a bag," Harry said to her. "Is Dudley home?"

"Upstairs," she replied. "What's happening?"

"You're leaving."

They fought him of course—argued and yelled and threatened—but in the end they did as he instructed (likely because of the dark looks and wands Kingsley and Tonks were aiming at them), disappearing up the steps. Dudley came waddling down the stairs a few minutes later, whining and complaining about some pointless computer game and lugging an overstuffed duffel bag. Petunia followed at his heels spouting promises of sweets and petting his hair, her own bag dragging behind her.

Harry swallowed the urge to roll his eyes. Not a damn thing had changed. Vernon was still a fountain of prejudice and anger; a bully through and through. Petunia still brimmed with jealousy and spite; still blamed the wizarding world for stealing Lily away from her. And Dudley, well. His pork chop of a cousin was still whiny and insolent; still spoiled and catered to. Harry wondered idly if Petunia still wiped his ass, too.

Seeing Harry and his friends loitering about the living room, Dudley adopted a petulant frown, arms crossed over his portly chest. "What're _they_ doing here?"

"Hey there, Big D," Harry replied with efficient cheek. "How's the diet coming?"

Dudley bristled. "You're not allowed here anymore, freak," he said, taking a step forward.

Kingsley and Tonks were there in an instant, wands aimed at his chest, something cold and deadly in their eyes. Here were those seldom seen Auror persona's coming out to play. "Not another step," Kingsley warned. "I'd hate to have to harm you considering we're here to save your worthless life."

Dudley froze in sudden horror. "It isn't those, those _things_ again, is it?"

Harry felt himself soften, just a bit. _Ignorant muggle_, he told himself. "No," he replied. "No Dementors this time."

"Then what—"

The ends of Kingsley and Tonks's wands suddenly burst into light just as Williamson apparated into the room. "We have company, sir. Death Eaters."

Kingsley swore. "Get them out of here, Tonks!" he ordered before apparating out with Williamson.

"You heard the man!" she snapped. "Ginny, grab their things. Ron. Hermione. Harry. Grab a Dursley and apparate back to headquarters."

Ginny was gone a moment later. Ron and Hermione took hold of Vernon and Petunia (ignoring their outraged protests) and vanished with a _pop!_ Harry whirled around to snatch his cousin and leave but—"Where the hell's Dudley!"

A curse slammed into the front door, a wide crack opening down its middle. Tonks cast a rapid succession of strengthening spells at both the door and the windows, her eyes eerily calm as she looked back over her shoulder. "I'll find him, Harry," she said. "Just get out of here."

"I can't—"

A low _boom!_ shook the house, windows exploding inward. Harry felt shards rip through his clothes as he dove for the floor. Tonks landed beside him, shielding him from the shower of glass. "You okay?"

Harry nodded. "Fine."

"Good. Then get the hell out of here."

"I have to find Dudley."

"Damnit, Harry," she snapped. "Get _out_ of here! I'll find him."

With a deafening _crack!_ the front door flew off its hinges, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. Five hooded figures glided into the hall, wands drawn and at the ready. Tonks muttered a string of obscenities as she scrambled behind the couch, hauling Harry along beside her. The sounds of raised voices and clashing curses could be heard from the front lawn, explosions of color lighting up the room.

_Sniff. _

Harry looked up, squinting through the cloud of dust filtering through the room. There, cowering between the television and the fireplace, was Dudley. _Thank god!_

"Potter's here," said one of the Death Eaters. "Find him."

Tonks shot to her feet with a wicked grin. "Peek-a-boo," she chirped. "_Stupefy!"_

Four of the Death Eaters dodged the spell. One fell to the floor in a lifeless heap. Dudley made a strangled noise, pressing further into his corner—and drawing the Death Eaters' sharp attention. Harry swore, shifting his wand from right hand to left. Tonks was going to kill him.

"_Confringo!"_

The living room floor exploded outward in a shower of nasty splinters and debris. The Death Eaters spun away, shielding their faces. Tonks fell to the floor, her eyes wide and panicked as she looked up at Harry. "Don't!"

But it was too late. Harry was already scrambling across the room on all fours. A _crucio_ arced past him, searing across the top of his shoulder and blasting into the wall. Dudley whimpered softly.

Tonks fired off a _levicorpus_, drawing the Death Eaters' attention back to her. "Get him out of here, Harry!" she yelled. "I'll be right behind you."

Harry hesitated for half a second—_What if she needs my help?—_before shoving his hero-complex aside and grabbing Dudley by the arm. _He needs it more_. "Hold on, Big D."

* * *

"Oh, thank god!"

"Harry!"

Strong hands hauled them both to their feet. Harry wavered a bit, willing away the nausea souring his belly. He really, _really_ hated apparating.

There was a loud _pop!_ and a sudden gasp. Harry looked up, for a moment frozen in fear. A tall, black-robed figure stood not two feet away, an unconscious Tonks in his arms. But then the hood was pushed back and Snape stood before them pale and tense. "Stunner."

Remus stepped forward, summoning a chair. "Set her down."

"Did anyone see you?" Harry asked.

Snape shook his head tersely. "They were rather preoccupied running for their lives," he said with an ugly curl of his lips (his own personal version of a grin).

"What the hell is going _on_?" Vernon demanded loudly.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd forgotten about the Dursleys. "I'm sor—"

Vernon struck him hard across the cheek, the _clap! _of hand-on-cheek echoing off the walls, followed by a stunned silence.

It was obvious from the way Harry shrank away, the way he didn't even _try_ to defend himself, that this was not the first time Vernon had struck him—and that enraged everyone in the room (even Snape). But Harry never gave them the chance to voice their outrage; holding up a hand, palm outward.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, Uncle Vernon, but your lives were in danger."

"Because of _you_," Vernon sneered.

"Yes, because of me," Harry replied softly, looking away. _Always because of me._ "For precautionary reasons you'll stay here tonight," he said. "I'll have someone escort you to Aunt Marge's in the morning." Picking up their bags he motioned toward the stairs. "I'll show you to your rooms."

The other watched him struggle to drag their bags up the staircase, no one daring to interfere. Harry wanted to handle this in his own way, and for now they'd let him. But every person in that room planned to give Vernon Dursley a good, firm talking to of their own.

"Why doesn't he just levitate their bags?"

Ron frowned, shifting away from Draco. "The Dursleys hate magic," he replied stiffly.

"He's trying to be accommodating," Hermione explained.

"Why?"

"Because if he gives in to the amount of anger he's got bottled up right now," Ginny said, "the Dursleys will wish Voldemort had gotten to them first."

Vernon's harsh, accusatory voice drifted down from the first floor and everyone else seemed to tense all at once—several of them itching to put their wands to good use.

Draco sneered, a soft glow emanating from his skin. He appriciated more than anyone what Harry must've gone through as a child. "It may have been better for all of us if he had."

**TBC**

**A/N: Did it read clumsy to anyone else? I don't know. This chapter just seemed very out-of-sync to me. But anyway. Do you hate me for letting Vernon hit Harry? I didn't want to, but it fit with the relationship between them so I let it go. Harry's sudden ability to sense and shield his visions will be further explained in later chapters and there will be more Harry/Draco interaction next chapter.**

**I hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


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